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Olly Smoothies: Everyday and On-the-Go!

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screen-shot-2016-09-22-at-3-25-29-pmOLLY Smoothies: Everyday and On-the-Go!

Now that Jonah is back to school, Fall Ball baseball is starting back up, and Mr. Ollie Blue is a 1 year old on the move, (and did I mention I like a crazy person signed up to be a room parent), life is busier than ever. On top of it, I’m still incredibly intent on losing the last bit (if you can call 20 lbs “a bit”) of baby weight. Believe it or not, it seems that the busier I get, and the more stressed out I am, the more hyper-focused I am on what I’m eating. I suppose this is a good thing—like, I don’t just throw my hands up on a busy day when I’ve got no food in the house and say, “screw it, let’s order fast food.” I’m hardly saying we’re perfect… Of course, we partake in the occasional pizza or Chinese food delivery situation. But in general, I TRY to choose food for my family. In my head, if 85% percent of my weekly diet is clean, healthy, and wholesome, I’ve done a good job (and deserve that Saturday night ice cream).

To maintain said 85% natural supermodel physique (wink, wink), I have always relied on smoothies as an important addition to my diet or even as a meal replacement. Recently, I partnered with OLLY Nutrition. OLLY is reinventing smoothies with a collection of delicious, convenient, plant-based protein powders that are high in protein and deliver natural sources of fiber, vitamins and omega-3’s. Since I like to get my workout done in the morning (or else, let’s face it, folks, it ain’t gonna happen), I usually drink a smoothie after. After a workout, your body is extra sensitive to the effects of protein. So drinking a protein rich smoothie can help promote the growth and recovery of lean muscle. The nutrients in OLLY Smoothies can help boost the muscle building effects of your workout , allowing you to get more from your session… And considering I usually only have about a 30 minute window to pack in my workout while the baby sleeps, I need all the extra help I can get.

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I’ve been enjoying the Slim Smoothie in Salted Caramel Chocolate. It has less sugar than most smoothies and powerful actives like blood orange extract that give a little “sliming boost.” While you can great add-ins like spinach, bananas, or cacao nibs (and a little ice), to be honest, when the baby is up and it’s time to march (and I am hungry), I just mix with water and shake it up in a big mason jar, and then we can explore “our hood.” He’s got his car and toys, I have my smoothie… Serious #smoothiestyle huh? 😉

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As I’ve talked about many times, coming up with healthy afternoon snack ideas that also appeal to my junk food loving 9 year old, is certainly a challenge. Add in the fact that he hardly ever eats his lunch that I send to school (helloooo, mom. I would rather play with my friends, duh!), and the fact that he usually has some sort of practice to get to, I want to make sure I’m plying him with a boost of protein and energy. The higher the protein, the more we can help stave off those afternoon “I’m stilllll hungry” whines. Each serving of OLLY’s Kids Smoothies, which comes in strawberry and chocolate, has a huge veggie boost—equivalent to an entire serving of broccoli. Win win!

Although you can simply add water to these too (again, perfect when we’re on the go), sometimes I mix it up with fresh berries and add ice to make it super thick.

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Oh and FYI…  OLLY is giving YOU a chance to win some great prizes (including a $200 gift card to Athleta or a $500 gift card to Target!) And just for entering, you’ll receive a gift card to Target to pick up your own OLLY product. For more info, head HERE.

Be sure to follow @OLLYNutrition and tell us your #SmoothieStyle

My blog post was written as part of my part of my collaboration with OLLY Nutrition. I have been compensated for my partnership, but these views are my own. Thanks for supporting!

The post Olly Smoothies: Everyday and On-the-Go! appeared first on Perfectly Disheveled.


Later in Life with Bay Alarm Medical

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Later in Life with Bay Alarm Medicalscreen-shot-2016-09-29-at-9-29-47-pmWhen most people think of getting old, (like really old, like older than 80 old), they don’t think of life just starting out. Sadly, they think this is the time to “wrap it up,” so to speak… The time to sit on the front porch with a quilt and watch those “crazy kids nowadays doing whatever it is they do.” Yeah, that’s what most people think “older” people do and become. Crotchety, cynical, and immobile.

But guess what? You haven’t met my Nana Jean and her boyfriend Burt.screen-shot-2016-09-29-at-9-21-08-pmYeah, I said boyfriend. And yeah, she’s 87 and he’s 89. And let me tell you, they’re anything but crotchety and immobile.

There is no porch sitting for these two. From cruises, to classes, to weekend road trips and daily cocktails at 5pm, these two are anything but porch sitters. In fact, they’re at the height of life. In fact, they’re so much in love and so not considering slowing down anytime soon, that they’ve decided to cohabitate. Yep, next May, in honor of Burt’s 90th birthday, these two are shacking up. That’s right, in one house. Just like “those crazy kids nowadays” out there. Seriously, is that amazing or what? (And did I mention they share the same exact birth date? I mean, you can’t think of anything cuter).

As you can imagine, our family is just thrilled for these two lovebirds. We all feel so comforted knowing that they will be by each other’s side through the next 20 years (Hey, you laugh, but Nana’s mom- my Great-Grandma Florence lived to be 104… so you never know!) But let’s face it, there is a harsh reality that exists, even in the romance novel that is Nana and Burt: Accidents Happen. People Get hurt. I don’t mean heartbreak hurt, I mean, accidentally fall and break a hip hurt. And considering this happened just last week while Nana was visiting us, this is something we take seriously (her foot just caught the end of a chair when she stood up and WHOMP! Down she went- luckily, nothing but the bagel and cream cheese she was carrying got hurt!! PHEW)

But all we could think was what if she was alone? What if it was worse? Recently, I partnered with Bay Alarm Medical. Whether you have a loved one who is active and on the go like my Nana and Burt, or has had to recently slow down, there’s nothing quite like having piece of mind knowing that they are just one button away from getting the 24/7 medical help they may need in the event of an emergency.

Setting up the device is super simple. Like ridiculously simple! You simply plug the device into a phone line (not to worry, most of our grandparents or parents still do believe in land lines. I know I do!). Next you plug it into a power adapter or socket. Push the button to test and voila. You’re connected! screen-shot-2016-09-29-at-9-18-05-pmThe device has a huge “Help” button that, when pushed, sends an immediate emergency alert and you’re connected to an operator. The Alert button is supposed to be placed near the ground so if someone was to fall they could reach it.  However, the people don’t always fall at home. Luckily there is a Mobile GPS option, something great for my traveling twosome! The choice of either of both a necklace or a wristband is also included with the home health alert system. Nana prefers the bracelet while Burt prefers the necklace (I mean, talk about a perfect pair ;))screen-shot-2016-09-29-at-9-20-03-pm

screen-shot-2016-09-29-at-9-18-42-pmWhile Nana and Burt might still be active and healthy, now that they are always tuned into their Bay Alarm device makes it easier for all of us to live our day-to-day worry free. In fact, on my overly exhausted – why did I birth two terrible sleepers- totally spacy and out of it days, I someimtes think maybe we all should have a device ready to help us. For tonight, my “vice” is wine and an early dinner. Luckily though I know at 5 oclock, across town, Nana and Burt will be doing the same thing and Bay Alarm will be there as back up.

For more information, visit Bayalarmmedical.com and follow @BayAlarmMedical on Facebook and Twitter.screen-shot-2016-09-29-at-9-19-30-pmI am proud to partner with Bay Alarm Medical. I am being sponsored by Bay Alarm Medical for this post and social media activities, but all opinions and experiences expressed are my own.

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Oliver’s Brown Bear, Brown Bear Birthday Party

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Oliver’s Brown Bear, Brown Bear Birthday Party

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What Oliver wants, Oliver gets. Since day UNO.

When he was a newborn…You want my boob at 1am, 4am and 6 times between 5:45 and 8:45pm? Here you go, baby. (Insert cartoon of a woman – hi, that’s me- throwing hoisting her boob over a nursing bra like a large net in the Bering sea).

When he started to crawl… You want to push mommy’s new sunglasses around on the floor? Have at it. (They’re knock-offs anyway. Because, you.)

When he started eating… You want to eat your weight in puffs and cheerios? Fine. Just, fine. (At least they are loaded with spinach and kale anti-oxidant chia flax omega 3 DHA super green beet juice. Who needs to cook anymore).

My point is, this kid is indulged. And so was/is Jonah. Let’s not pretend that his Royal Highness doesn’t get  extra special treatment either. Well, when it came time for Oliver’s 1st birthday, I sat down with him and asked what kind of birthday he wanted. In very clear words, (God those brain puffs are amazing) he told me he wanted a Brown Bear, Brown Bear themed party… With a bounce house for the big kids and some bubbles for his young peeps. Hey, he knows what he likes.

Okay, fine. He didn’t say it that clearly. He just threw me the Brown Bear book as he does every day and said “Bra Beh” and I knew/know what it means: “Read me the ‘Brown Bear’ book now, mother fucker. And hit repeat until I say stop.”

He’s a feisty little monkey.

So after the year we’ve had, we felt (okay, I felt… because I like to create work for myself apparently), that a big blowout bday party was necessary to celebrate the big ONE. And, because he is OBSESSED with Bill Martin & Eric Carle’s Brown Bear, Brown Bear (and Oriental Trading and Etsy are my best friends), I figured this would be a perfect theme. Btw, he’s also obsessed with dogs and for a second I wanted to have a puppy party where we’d bring puppies here and let the kids pet them. But then I thought about emergency rooms and fleas and I thought red birds and green frogs were a safer bet.

Unfortunately, I didn’t take the greatest photos to show off and prove share my Pinterest prowess, but I got enough to give you the jist of it AND am happily sharing the links to all the things I purchased!  Because that’s what friends with brilliant children are for.

We had a table full of snacks… Goldfish crackers in a goldfish bowl (with a net for scooping), Grapes for Green Frogs, Brown bear (Teddy Grahams) bites… For lunch had a hot dog and hamburger cart! That was definitely a hit. I used super cute napkin rings (which I downloaded from Etsy) with yellow napkins and blue utensils.

screen-shot-2016-10-07-at-1-32-08-pmscreen-shot-2016-10-07-at-1-35-31-pmscreen-shot-2016-10-07-at-1-36-14-pmscreen-shot-2016-10-07-at-1-37-13-pmSorry… this is the best shot I got of the napkin roll ups. Hey, this blog is Perfectly Disheveled for a reason. Case in point.

screen-shot-2016-10-07-at-1-11-05-pmFor party favors, I cut out the printable tags and tied them on to giant bubble wands.screen-shot-2016-10-06-at-2-39-03-pmscreen-shot-2016-10-06-at-2-24-07-pmI used old ribbon that I had from our wedding to make the Happy Birthday banner which I hung on our front porch along with the cutout of the animals.screen-shot-2016-10-06-at-2-23-52-pmscreen-shot-2016-10-07-at-1-25-40-pmI also used the ribbon to make a small banner out of what were supposed to be cupcake toppers.screen-shot-2016-10-07-at-1-27-24-pmWe hung lanterns from the trees which looked pretty cute and tables were covered with table clothes and balloons in coordinating primary colors.screen-shot-2016-10-07-at-1-28-32-pmscreen-shot-2016-10-07-at-1-30-00-pmFor cake, I kept it pretty simple and cheap with a cute polka dot from Ralph’s. Apparently 1 year olds don’t give two shits whether the cake is Susie Cakes or grocery store straight from the box goodness. They just like to smash it and eat the crap out of it.

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Big Brother Jonah’s bday also happened to be a few days away (apparently January is my month to make bebes) so I did my best to get cute and make a little donut cake for him. Good thing young children don’t mind candle wax on glazed balls.

screen-shot-2016-10-07-at-9-50-46-pmscreen-shot-2016-10-07-at-9-51-34-pmInterested in throwing your own Brown Bear party and raising highly gifted and gorgeous children like me? Sorry, doing/having both will be nearly impossible as my perfection is a natural born skill which has been genetically passed along to my equally remarkable offspring. But I am happy to provide you with links to some of the items used for the party. (See below under the darling picture of my perfect family.) Best of luck though, friends. Best of luck. 😉screen-shot-2016-10-07-at-1-52-24-pmscreen-shot-2016-10-07-at-1-55-31-pm

What I got:

Oriental Trading : From plates to napkins and table clothes and even brown bear brown bear lanterns, they obviously have it all.

From Etsy (all downloadable items. I printed everything at Staples.com. Crazy easy).

The post Oliver’s Brown Bear, Brown Bear Birthday Party appeared first on Perfectly Disheveled.

My “Particular” Guy

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My “Particular” Guy
img_2265Almost every night, without fail, about 45 seconds after I walk out of Jonah’s room and finally sit down on my bed with the loudest internal “Ahhh,” he calls me.

“Mommmmmmmy.” Trying to summon every ounce of patience I have left, I tiptoe down the hallway quickly so as to not waking his sleeping baby brother right next door. Except as you may recall from several other posts, our floors seemed to have been transported from the Little House on the Prairie and they creak as if Pa is a’comin.

“Yes, bud. What is it?”

Usually, it’s a “can I have water, it’s too hot, why is the sky blue, can you pleeeease consider buying me my own iPhone soon. Zach is getting one…” (Almost every night my last words are something to the effect of “I don’t care what Zach is getting. It’s time to go to sleep.” Only I say it a little nicer than that. Okay, fine. I don’t say it nicely. I totally say Zach can go eff himself (with my tone)… and tell him to go to sleep, kiss his head and dare to walk out the door.

However, this “Mommmmmy, one more thing” dance goes on a few more times, until I finally do get back into my room and try to pick up where Peter and I left off in our conversation, which usually never happens because talking is literally a struggle and basically nonsensical. So we twitter/instagram/facebook/and even stare into space. Because brains are dead and mommy go night night.

Except tonight. Tonight the Mommmmmy cry didn’t leave me exasperated or annoyed.

Just as I sat down on the bed, he called me back in. His voice sounded different.

I opened his door, “What’s up, babe?”

“Mom, what happens after you die?” he asked tearfully. Oh, jeez. We’ve had the life and death and even the where do babies come from talk. But it’s never easy and now he’s older and—

“Is there just black?” he continues.  “Like is it even possible that you still SEE things or hear things?”

“I- I – think it’s possible, yes. Your spirit and soul always lives on because you go to heaven.”

“But what if it’s not true?” He’s starting to sob. I hold him tight and tell him it’s okay. But I actually am not certain it is.

“Of course it’s true. You know how doctors study medicine for years and years to become doctors? Well, Rabbis and Priests do the same thing with religion. They study the Bible and Torah and then they are experts. That’s why there’s so much art like the ceilings I saw in Italy, with depiction of heaven, and….” I’m not making sense. (Although, it’s not the worst explanation in the world, if I do say so myself).

He’s sobbing. Is he overtired? Was it the fact that, right before bed, I told him it was his fault he left out his Pokemon cards and Oliver ripped them (and maybe took it inot the bath with him… because I didn’t stop him. Insert the “uh oh” emoji here).

“But you don’t actually KNOW. You don’t KNOW what happens when we die.”

“Well, no. Because I’ve never died.”

“SEE!” He sobs into my chest. I am speechless and can only rock him and tell him it’s going to be okay.

“I’m just so worried.”

“Are you worried something is going to happen to me… or someone in your family?”

“No, I don’t think so. This is just bothering me lately. Not knowing what it looks or feels like when you’re dead.”

“I wish I had the answer… but luckily, I’ve never died, you know,” I say, trying to joke again. He doesn’t think it’s funny. He cries more.

I hold him and tell him to think about baseball and cool cars, chocolate candy and amusement parks, funny YouTube videos and loud farts. It calms him down a bit but I can hear his mind racing. I know, because at the age of 9, my brain raced that fast and loud too. It still does… But tonight, the wine at dinner (and daily Lexapro, if I’m being honest) helps me to coast into neutral…

“I hate not knowing, Mommy. I wish someone could tell us.”

“I do too. But then you would always know… So maybe it’s better to just trust and enjoy life and be grateful for all the blessings… Think about all the great things and focus on that. You’re luck.

“Do you think I’m greedy?”

“No, do you?”

“Well, maybe I am sometimes… because I’m always asking for stuff?”

“Because you’re 9. And that’s what 9 year olds do.”

“I’ll try to be more grateful.”

“That can never hurt.”

He takes a deep breath. “I think I feel a little better.”

“That’s good. Try to close your eyes.”

I give him a few more kisses as he closes his eyes… Eventually, he lets me tells me to go, that I’m crushing him and starting to snore, (you try staying awake after a long day, snuggled against a lump of yummy in a soft bed of robot sheets and probably lots of boogers). I make my way back into my room… a little sad and like him, a little worried. I don’t have all the answers and I too wish I knew what was going to happen and how long we had to enjoy all of this messy stuff.

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Don’t really have a wrap up, nice little button to end this post… So I’m sharing a video of my monkey man from 5 years ago… He was just 4. The Peter he is talking about is of course, my Peter, his stepdad. Turns out, Peter, like Jonah, is pretty special and  “partic-liar…” too.

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The Space Between

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123heilbronI have been sitting on this post for a long time. But because of the sensitive topic, and because I could not tolerate anyone casting any judgment but that of love and understanding, I have kept it private. But with just 7 days until the election, I can no longer contain it.

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about my childhood and trying to remember at what point I learned what certain words meant… As a mom to a 9-year old boy, it’s hard for me to remember what I knew at his age and what I may have known just by virtue of being a girl/daughter to a single mom during the days of Dynasty and Dallas… when there was no such thing as DVR to shield me from one television while my mom drooled over Bobby Ewing.

But then there’s the election. While some may think there’s too much vulgarity for a 9 year old to handle, I feel strongly that, put in the right context, this is a valuable opportunity to talk about our world and our personal values… to make things that sound scary less scary without sugar coating what is happening. But also, um, he can read.

One morning as we were getting ready for school, I flipped on the Today Show and there it was, the headline: Donald Trump: “Women Deserve ‘Some Form of Punishment’ For Abortion.”

“Mom, what’s an abortion?” He asks, saying it correctly. My mind quickly races. Shit. Shit. Shit. Do I answer? I can’t answer. This is too much. This is inappropriate. Shit. No. I have to answer. I will not lie to my child. One day he’s going to watch Dirty Dancing and that scene and that is not what happens. That’s not what abortion really looks like.

“It’s a medical procedure to end a pregnancy.”

There. I said it. Exactly what “it” is.

“Why would you want to end a pregnancy?”

“If something is wrong with the baby or the mommy. Like really wrong.”

“But when does that happen?” he asked concerned

“Honey, it happens very early in the pregnancy. When a baby isn’t actually a baby. It’s a seed still, really. And the doctors determine it’s not a healthy pregnancy for the baby or the mom.”

“And Donald Trump thinks women should be punished for this?”

“Apparently, yes.”

AND THEN HE SAID: “But shouldn’t that be up to the woman?”

THE SEAS PARTED AND THE ANGELS SANG. YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS.

He continued, “Isn’t it HER DECISION. Not his???”

YES. YES. I JUMP. I SCREAM. I HUG HIM. I tell him that yes! That is what the issue is about. There are people in the government that think they need to make decisions about a woman’s body, while others, like me, believe no one has the right to tell me what to do with my body

I immediately follow up this conversation with a reminder that while I have told him about this, he may NOT, I repeat, may NOT go and discuss this with any of his friends. Much like the “where do babies come from” conversation that we had over the summer prior to his brother, this topic is 100% percent not appropriate for the playground.

“I already forgot what it was,” he says.

Good boy.

The thing is, the thing that I could never, would never tell him is that he knows someone who has had an abortion. He knows someone who has had to “medically end a pregnancy.” And he knows someone that has lived, and still lives, with the pain of this “decision”… as if it even was one.

In August of 2014, at 13 weeks pregnant, we found out that our baby was positive for Trisomy 13, a rare, horrible, and ultimately fatal chromosomal abnormality. Blood tests and an extensive ultrasound with a perinatologist concluded that this was an extremely abnormal pregnancy, even by Trisomy 13 standards.

“Abnormally thick nuchal fold, brain malformed, extra digits on the hands and feet, issues with the bladder, malformed heart…Shall I continue?” the doctor asked gently as he held the ultrasound wand to my belly, where we could see this baby, alive but so very sick, moving around.

Peter and I sobbed. This was the worst most horrible thing you can ever imagine hearing and seeing at the same time.

Peter asked, “Is there any chance? Maybe something can change? Maybe we should get a second opinion?”

“I am so very sorry. It is without question that this baby will die in utero and/or die within hours to days after being born. Again, if it can make it.”

My plan was to tell Jonah, and the rest of the world, that we were having a baby and that he was going to be a big brother after we left this appointment. Heartbreaking doesn’t even begin to describe the disappointment I felt for the dream I never got to fulfill.

Two days later, Peter and I walked into the maternity and delivery ward for a D&C at the very same hospital, in the very same surgical area where I delivered Jonah and where I would deliver Oliver one year later. Here we were, watching pregnant women waddling in to go deliver a baby while anxious daddies schlepped in their pillows, sitting amongst families waiting for their niece or nephew or grandbaby to arrive with balloons and welcome signs… It was absolute torture. Still. Pregnant. Feeling. Pregnant. But there would be no congratulating, texts, or posts to announce this. It would just be over. And I would be empty.

Many people think of abortion as a binary outcome of either medically necessary to save the life of the mother or pure evil to end a life. The truth, however, is that so many of us exist in this horrible and twisted space in between, where we both desperately want the pregnancy to continue and also know that we can’t possibly let it continue because of forces beyond our control. It’s a stunning contradiction to consider.

Our best possible scenario was carrying to term and having the baby die within a few days. That was assuming that the baby had remotely normal brain formation (it didn’t). That was also assuming the heart could continue to develop (it couldn’t). Additionally, spinal cord development would have had to continue (it wasn’t continuing). You might say this left us with no choice. Here’s the kicker though: It wasn’t considered a medical necessity to terminate this pregnancy. Therefore, I had to “want” to end a totally unhealthy and doomed pregnancy. It wasn’t medically necessary but I also didn’t want to choose to end it…I fall, like many women, in to the big fat GRAY area of this political debate…I’m in the space between.

122heilbronIn fact, I had to go to another doctor other than my own OB/Gyn to perform the D&C because I was “too far along”. Not only did the doctor performing the procedure have to stop at the end of the pre-op appointment to look at a form and then at me to ask, “Are you electing to have this surgery performed?” but we were also then forced to explain to our insurance company about “wanting” to end the pregnancy even though it wasn’t “medically necessary.” And if justifying this to a nameless agent at an insurance company isn’t horrible as it is, the bill that you get in the mail after for this is really the part where you feel like you’ve been punched in the gut… Or maybe it’s the part when you wake up the next day with a notification from a pregnancy app about what size the baby (that’s no longer there), is today. Today your baby is the size of a pea pod! Or the names that you started to dream about that get put on hold, or forgotten… because they were for that baby. Or maybe the gut punch is the fact that we never knew if we were having a boy or a girl, because it would have been too hard to know.

I wish I knew. I think it was a girl.

See, my body, MY BODY, was in the middle of doing something. At 13 weeks, my body was working hard to create a human. My blood had doubled in volume and every organ in my body was working double time to carry and create a perfect human being. But it was not just a little “imperfect,” it was IMPROBABLE. It was not healthy and it was not life. For us it wasn’t a choice. Would this put me in the category of women that should be “punished”?

And this is the thing. The thing that politicians, especially men, have to stop doing. Please stop standing up and making these horribly generic and antiquated assumptions about abortions, as if every woman ends a pregnancy because it’s unwanted or because her life is in danger. Politicians, particularly the ones that categorize themselves as “pro-life” talk about abortion as if it should only apply to women who have been raped or when it’s medically necessary.

I was neither of those. I wasn’t going to die and I certainly and desperately wanted this baby and did everything in my power to give my body and baby the healthiest 13 weeks possible.

But I am in the gray area. I am a woman whose circumstance is NEVER considered during these “right to life” debates.

Speaking of right to life, let’s talk about what kind of trauma my living son would have to endure if I were forced to carry a baby until it either died inside of me or died after birth. How is that fair? Not to mention, the burden it would have placed on our family financially… Don’t even get me started on the hypocrisy this ridiculous movement to ban “non-medically necessary” abortions like this one creates for taxes.

But still… Two years and one beautiful baby later, not a day goes by that I don’t think about what could have been. It will always be painful, there will always be an emptiness that exists as a result of my “choice” to end a pregnancy where it “wasn’t medically necessary.” I will always live in the space between. But on November 8th, there will be some sense of relief if Hillary Clinton is elected as President. There will be some sense of relief knowing that my right to choose, (or not choose depending on how you see it) will remain protected… because it never, ever needs defending.

In the meantime, I truly can’t wait until the election is over and we can get back to the easier questions like when will he get his own iPhone, and why is the sky blue, and When. Are. We. Getting. A. DOG?!

All three things I’m totally okay lying about.

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We Are Grateful

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WE ARE GRATEFUL

If I could go back and tell my 12-year old self that life that one day, the real version of “let’s play house” would be a reality, and I would be sitting in a beautiful kitchen preparing to have 30 people at my house for Thanksgiving with a new puppy in my lap, a baby asleep in a crib, a 9-year old kicking a ball outside (okay, playing on the iPad, but dreams are fun), and an amazing partner/husband at work, and I’d be happy, like really, really happy, I wouldn’t believe you. At 12, things suuuuuck. You can’t see past tomorrow. You have no idea how things are going to turn out. You always wish you had more. You worry you aren’t good enough. Pretty enough. Smart enough. You think everything. Is. The. End. Of. The. World.

I wish I could say that only a few short years later, I snapped out of that “woe is me” teenage angst, and I realized the world wasn’t out to get me and life was actually good, but unfortunately, it lasted a lot longer. Like too long. In fact, here’s the real truth: I think this past year was when I began to count my blessings… When I realized the depth of my fortune, the level of my luck, and the joy that is mine to have if I can just get out of my own way long enough to revel in it.

While I’ve had several “best days” of my life (the birth of my children, our wedding day, a magical boat ride along the Amalfi Coast, etc), as cliché as it may sound, I think it was Oliver’s stay(s) at Children’s Hospital Los Angeles that truly opened my eyes to what luck really is and how blessed I actually am.

This past Mother’s Day, we launched We Are Lucky, a program at CHLA dedicated to helping families of patients OUTSIDE the walls of the hospital. Each year, one in 25 Los Angeles families need the comprehensive care of Children’s Hospital Los Angeles for their child. For some children, a quick trip to CHLA is all it takes for healing.  But for other more critical or complex cases, the stays can be longer or necessitate repeat trips to the hospital.

For those instances, some moms may be forced to make difficult choices—if they don’t have ready access to child care, they may have to choose between the child that is sick and the children who are well.

Thanks to the help of our incredible family and friends who rallied behind this effort, in one week we met our goal of $25,000 and to date we have raised $34,356!

To hear from the social work department how the funds have directly impacted families has given me even more inspiration and motivation to continue this support. Below is a direct quote from the head of the program:

“We have given out grocery, gas and Target cards to pay for sitters for siblings of patients and provided transportation by train from the hospital so parents can be by their sick child’s bedside or relatives can relieve them while they go to work.

“We have amazing families that face such daunting challenges in addition to their child being sick.  These funds are a godsend and have eliminated so much of the additional stress caused by separation from their sick child. Please thank them from the bottom of our hearts for their generosity and for recognizing that not all families have resources to do something as simple as staying by their child’s bedside when they are so sick.”

She went on to tell us that for one family, the funds were used to help a single dad who needed help with train transportation. In his particular case, he needed to take a few hours from the bedside of his own child to help his nephew get ready for his first day of school. His nephew’s mother (his own sister) had passed just a month prior to his own child’s hospitalization and dad had taken on care for the nephew. As a day laborer, he had not worked in a few weeks because of his own child’s admission to CHLA. Because of the #WeAreLucky fund, CHLA was able to help this single father address his nephew’s school needs while minimizing his time away from the bedside of his own child.

This is just one example of the creative ways in which the funds have been used to go above and beyond in helping families address basic needs while their child is in the hospital.

This Thanksgiving, from the bottom of my heart, I want to thank all of you who made a donation to We are Lucky. Our goal is to continue to do all we can to make a difference for other families that don’t have the resources and support that we have had through this journey… A journey that isn’t over as we head into another surgery on December 9th… Though it’s never easy to walk through those doors at CHLA, I walk in lucky while so many families don’t.

I am grateful beyond measure and wish you and your families a beautiful holiday filled with laughter, health, peace, and stuffing that tastes as good as my Nana’s.

For more information on We Are Lucky, visit CHLA.org/wearelucky.

Xo

Jenny

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Aquaphor Baby: From the First Bath On

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Aquaphor Baby: From the First Bath On

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Oliver’s First Bath, September 2015

Let’s face it: There are very few things in the world that are both as exciting and stressful as bringing home your newborn from the hospital. Even though I had already “been there done that” with Jonah, when we brought Oliver home from the hospital, I still had that feeling that all new moms get that first week at home… terror, joy, exhaustion, and concern… Am I doing this right? Is he okay? Is he hungry? From feeding to sleeping and to everything in between, there is so much information out there it’s hard to know what to trust let alone find the time and energy to decipher all of it! One brand I know I can turn to without having to get the opinion of 24,000 other mommies on social media sites is Aquaphor. Aquaphor has been a go-to in our house for bothAboys since day 1. We are a house full of people (young and old) with sensitive skin and have to be very careful with what we bath in and use for lotion. I’ve always loved how mild the Aquaphor Baby Wash & Shampoo is. The wash gently cleanses baby’s skin and hair without drying it out. Enriched with soothing chamomile and provitamin B5, it is specially developed and clinically proven to be mild enough for baby’s sensitive skin.screen-shot-2016-11-29-at-3-24-17-pm

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Whenever I take my boys to the pediatrician and mention something skin related, without fail the doctor always recommends: Aquaphor. Seriously! To this day, I still have a tub of the Aquaphor Baby Healing Ointment next to Jonah’s bed. Especially when the weather cools down and winds pick up, it helps protects dry, Arritated skin which helps enhance the natural healing process. For the baby, it also can be used to soothe and protect minor cuts, scrapes, burns and dry, irritated baby skin e.g. drool rash.

Speaking of rash, at some point, every baby gets diaper rash. I keep saying to Peter if we ever have a 3rd child, I really hope I figure more things out about babies– like diaper rash and what. causes. it. I swear, Oliver sometimes just gets it out of nowhere. The Aquaphor Baby Diaper Rash Cream works really quickly and acts as a barrier cream to protect babies’ delicate skin. The small diaper rash tubes are perfect for the diaper bag! I also always keep a squeezable tube of the Aquaphor Baby Healing Ointment in my diaper bag… After all that diaper changing and hand washing, my hands get so dry, so I love to use it as a hand salve.screen-shot-2016-11-29-at-3-18-51-pm

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Partnering up with a brand like Aquaphor is a no brainer for a new/old mom like me. For more information on Aquaphor Baby, click HERE

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My Shot

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My Shot

Me circa 1984… When parenting was easy…

Ever since finding out that I was pregnant in November, I’ve sort of had the iconic “Hamilton” song “My Shot,” in my head. It’s sort of become my mantra.

In about an hour, I will be jumping on the phone with a sleep consultant (again) to try to figure out how to eradicate the sleep terror in our house that has existed for the last 17 months… Actually, if you’re including the little dude’s leader, (insert mugshot of older brother Jonah here), the issue of sleep, or lack thereof, is an issue I’ve had to deal with for 9 1/2 years.

Needless to say, I’m fucking EXHAUSTED.

Before co-sleeping was “dangerous”

It occurred to me this morning as I dangled half my body out of the shower in attempt to entertain Oliver/keep him from head-diving into the toilet, that I should have this “thing” down a bit more. I mean, look at my credit card bills: From lactation consultants, to sleep trainers, to behavior coaches, to private baby/toddler nutrition classes, to exclusive mommy & me’s, to a  workshop on how to your baby in a sling, I’ve literally spent thousands over the years to try to “figure it out.” (And this doesn’t include the extra data I’ve used up on my phone texting other mommy friends for advice).

Well, with my 3rd baby boy on the way, I’m thinking that it’s time to go from survival mode to I got this shit in the bag mode. AND I AM NOT THROWING AWAY MY SHOT!

Knowing that this is my final debut as a pregnant woman and final chance at birthing a baby (and all the glorious things that follow), it feels like the pressure is on and there’s no excuse to not check off the things that I’ve never gotten right. To be fair, I’m not entirely clueless in every department. There are some things I have seemed to master (or at least make look real good on Instagram).

I’ve always compared my babies to other babies…

Let’s start with the obvious: Don’t know… How to get a baby to sleep. Or a toddler. Or a 9 year old child.

Don’t know… how to nurse a baby in public without having the world wince as I literally hoist and shove my breast into a screaming baby’s mouth.

Don’t know… how to cut every food out known to man and still make breastmilk that isn’t equivalent to nonfat milk with a hint of reflux and gas causing acid.

Don’t know… how to clean an infant/baby vagina. (I only have boys so that’s fine. But I just wanted to throw that in for things that really stress me out).

Don’t know… how to get a baby on a schedule and away from the “on demand” feed thing. I know that’s what you’re supposed to do in the beginning (because the consultants I paid 14 trillion dollars to told me that), but I’d like to tell this baby when he eats and when he sleeps. I’m the captain now.

Don’t know… how to make a baby enjoy tummy time. But really, does anybody?

Don’t know… where the baby/pregnancy app on my phone went so I haven’t been really “tracking” this pregnancy like I obsessively did with the other two. (My guess is that Mr. Oliver Never Sit Still futzed with my phone and deleted it. Which leads me to…)

Don’t know… how to balance multiple children at once, and get them all interested or occupied on the same thing (other than food) without resorting to some sort of technology.

A year later… My 2nd baby! Not quite a parenting pro yet though…

On the other hand….

I DO know… That watching the same episodes of Sesame Street over and over is as beneficial in learning words as is reading the same book and seeing the cow jump over the moon 900 nights in a row.

I also know… Elmo is the devil and if introduced too early, you are doomed to have an Elmo obsessed child and hear his creepy red voice in your sleep. (So maybe the balance lies somewhere in the middle of those two).

Speaking of balance… I do know that maintaining a little bit of “self” is the key. For me, exercise and good nutrition is a must in order to feel sane… Of course, I haven’t consistently exercised and watched what I’ve eaten simultaneously since our wedding 3 years ago. So that should explain my crazy.

Being the first of your friends to have a baby is very stressful…

 

 

 

I know… it will take time to get the baby weight off. I am the opposite of the women that say breastfeeding just “took those darn pounds off and then some. And boooy do I eat like a horse.” Just know if I could hit the F you button on Instagram I would. But instead I will like it. Because, can you like me back? That helps with the crazy (see above).

On a more mature note… I do know how to ask for help and am totally not ashamed to say I need it. I believe it was Hillary Why Isn’t She My President Clinton who said, “It takes a village.” I have pregnancy brain, but who was it that also said, “it takes money?” Can’t remember. But I know it does because Peter tells me so.

I know… We are not a co-sleeping family. This is one facet of Chapter Sleep that I know! From the time my monkeys are babies, to the time my monkeys turn into sassy gorillas, sleeping in mommy’s bed is not an option. This makes for super fun trips to tuck said gorilla back into his bed (almost on a nightly basis), but it makes it very special when every he does get to have a sleepover just with me every blue moon.

I know… I will spend the next 18 years screaming at the 4 other people in my house to put down the goddamn toilet seats.

I know… I’ll never take my boys to Disneyland and spend $200 at the Bibbidi Bobbidi Boutique Salon for a meeting with a princess and glitter plastered hair.

I know… there will be many conversations I will be left out of because I’m a girl and also have no interest in football other than chips. But I also know I won’t be a bitchy hormonally crazed 56 years old that has to fight with a bitchy hormonally crazed 16 year old teenage girl. So let’s hear it for the boys.

I know I don’t know everything.

I know I probably never will.

And I definitely know: I make darn cute babies. 😉

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Remember This

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21 Weeks… I think…

Remember This

Life is moving quickly these days. I’m more than halfway through my pregnancy, we’re in escrow on our house (and on the hunt for a new one), Oliver knows that “P” is for “poo poo!” and Jonah has questions about Brexit . I truly can’t keep up.

The other day, as I watched Oliver literally throw himself on the floor because I wouldn’t hand over my phone so he could look at photos and probably surf for porn, (Kids are very advanced these days), I realized I haven’t been documenting his milestones (including the ones that make me want to throw myself on the floor too). With Jonah, I had albums of gorgeously printed photos in a scrapbook full of darling paper and stickers that I carefully curated from Michael’s for each month of his life. Literally, I did not miss a beat. I looked around my house and then realized, I don’t even have a printed photo of Oliver. And then my panic really set in… Baby 3!!! I have taken maaaaybe 3 photos of myself/belly documenting whatever week it is, but only because I was mostly trying to get a sense of how my outfit looked. I don’t think I even know where the ultrasound pictures from this pregnancy are!!! Did I mention, I kept a journal when I was pregnant with Jonah. Yeah, I had it bound… Like a book. With descriptions of what I ate, where I went, and what songs made me cry at that the mere thought of becoming a mom and meeting my brilliantly gorgeous newborn.

Do you think my 3rd baby’s first words will be “AVOCADO TOAST?” Because that’s the only thing that makes me cry (tears of joy) these days.

All jokes aside, I’ve never felt so happy and content in my life. What we went through with Oliver last year has seriously changed me and helped put so much in perspective. Life may be super stressful right now, and I may only shower 4 times a week, but this is the GOOD stress. This is the stuff that Peter and I will remember when we are old and grey and sitting on our golf-course front vacation home (in Maui), waiting for the grandkids to come visit… (I think they put happy pills in my Avocado Toast at Le Pain this morning).

Anyway, I want to REMEMBER this time. I want to REMEMBER what is happening. And while I’m not able to blog as much as I want, I do have a moment now, to jot down a few moments of time that I want to hold on to. That I can’t print in a photo. That I can’t top with a cute sticker. They were just moments. But they mean so much to me because they’re literally splices of WHAT IS NOW.

So here goes….

It is a school night. Jonah asks me to sign his reading log. Peter is going through mail.

Jonah: Oh, hey. I learned a new bad word today.

Me: Okay…. What is it?

J: The “C” word.

Peter and I gulp.

Me: What C word?

J: Wait, there’s more than one?

Peter: Just tell us what this one is, bud.

J: I don’t want to get in trouble. Why don’t I spell it?

Me: Okay, great.

J: Okay… C… O… N… T…

Peter and I pinch each other.

Me: (under my breath to Peter) He’s spelling it wro-

Peter nudges me quiet.

P: Yes, Okay. That’s a very bad word.

J: What does it mean?

Me: I, um, you know… this is the one word I think we will hold off on explaining. Just know you may NOT use it.

J: Oh! Is it racist???

P: No. It’s just bad.

J: Fine. Can you tell me the other C word?

Me: Cookie! Who wants a cookie?

Thin mints are always unforgettable.

—–

A recent Sunday night in the kitchen…

Oliver throws his broccoli on to the floor and starts crying. Jonah tells me he refuses to take a shower. And Apple has just pooped on the rug.

As I attempt to clean up the broccoli while calming Oliver down, and using my famous teeth gritted you’re dead face to get Jonah in the shower, I turn to Peter who has a bag of dog poop in his hand.

Me: Here’s what going to happen. So listen to me and listen to me carefully.

Peter: What?
Me: While you put Oliver down, I’ll get Jonah to bed, clean up and Postmates us some mother fucking Pink Berry. Then we’re going to get in bed and watch 60 Minutes and pass the fuck out. Got it?

Peter: (Completely delighted). Oooh, I like the way you talk, baby.

We kiss quickly and head to our mission(s).

We make it through our entire yogurts (I eat most of his too), 1 ½ segments of 60 minutes, and call it a night… perfectly happy and in sync.

I will remember that night. Because, simply, this is us.

—-

Another moment… Perhaps my favorite…

It’s been a long day (are you seeing a pattern?). After telling Jonah 465 times to brush his teeth and get into bed, he begs one last time:

J: Can I please sleep with you tonight? In your bed?

Me: It’s a school night!

J: So. Peter is out of town and I want to sleep with you.

Me: Baby, not tonight. I want you to get a good night sleep.

J: I will sleep great.

Me: Let me rephrase: I want to get a good night sleep. Plus, the baby crying on the monitor will wake you up.

J: Aw, but—

Me: Come on, lights out. Turn over and I will rub your back.

J: I never get to sleep with you.

Me: Well, the good news is you’re only 9. I have like 9 more years of you here before you go to college that you can sleep with me.

J: Really, mom? Seriously? Do you think I’m going to want to sleep with you when I’m 15?!

Speechless… and rubbing his back for a lot longer than I had anticipated.

Talk about savoring memories…

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Helping Other Parents in Need: We Are Lucky

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“No parent should ever have to decide if they can afford to save their child’s life.”

– Jimmy Kimmel

By now, you have probably seen Jimmy Kimmel’s emotional monologue detailing the birth of his son Billy and the heart condition that he was born with. Within minutes of watching (okay, seconds), Peter and I were in tears. As Jimmy shared the harrowing and terrifying first few hours of Billy’s birth, we were fluttered by the memories of our own terrifying experience during Oliver’s birth.

In September of 2015, our son Oliver was born with a very large and undetected (in utero) Lymphatic Malformation-a vascular anomaly that affects roughly 1 in 50,000 children.  (Read more about his birth story HERE). Fortunately, like Jimmy Kimmel’s son, our doctors at Cedars Sinai Hospital were also able to identify the issue and we were sent for an evaluation at Children’s Hospital Los Angeles when he was just a week old. From there, we were teamed up with specialists in the Vascular Anomalies clinic who developed a plan for treatment. In February 2016, at 4 ½ months old, Oliver underwent several rounds of sclerotherapy over the course of 3 days. Two months later, he returned for another round of sclerotherapy. His final surgery was just this past December, in which he underwent surgery to excise the remaining mass and remove some of the excess skin on his chest.

At some point, in years from now, he may have to have another surgery to remove additional excess skin that may still remain. But for now, we are done and it’s time to heal.

Has he healed? Is he OKAY?

We get these questions a lot. The general answer is YES. Yes, he is OKAY. He is healthy. He is thriving. He is a todder. Messy. Feisty. Curious. And Elmo obsessed. But I would be lying if I said that our experience isn’t engrained in all that *I* do and all that I see. I still see his scar when I bathe him. I still feel the lump where his flesh still hangs. And I still wonder if any of this experience has changed him and will sit in his subconscious for the rest of his life.

I walked him into his last surgery, holding my own tears back as they placed the gas mask on him and he screamed “Mama.” This is why he doesn’t sleep, I tell myself. Leaving mommy will always be terrifying.

I know I’m not the only mom that worries. We all look at our children and at some point in time, and wonder: Are they okay? Is this normal? It’s what we do. But the truth is, while we are on the other side of the unknowns now, his condition at birth and all that followed (excuse me, his “pre-existing condition” that our government has decided may not be protected) is something that I may not ever recover from.

What does give me strength, however, is gratitude. As cheesy, Namaste-crunching and utterly bullshit as this sounds, it couldn’t be more true. You see, going through something like this—having a baby born with any kind of disease—changes the way you see the world. Does my 9 year old’s lack of urgency (to get ready for school) in the mornings still make me insane? YES. Do I still curse the weekends when my husband has a golf tournament? YES. Do I still get annoyed when they run out of decaf at Starbucks and I have to wait for a pour-over? YES. Because I’m impatient. And I’m human. And zen is NOT my middle name.

But I’ve sat in a hospital, next to a baby hooked up to machines… down the hall from more babies hooked up to machines, some who were NEVER GOING HOME and IT. CHANGED. ME. I understand what luck means now. And not a day goes by that Peter and I don’t tell each other how lucky we feel.

As Jimmy Kimmel said in a recent (re)tweet after sharing the story of his son:

“twitter idea for 2017: find real things to be mad about…”

But let me cut to the chase, because if I stay on the subject of Oliver’s surgeries I will start crying again, and I am currently sitting at Starbucks (they had decaf, thank GOD) and having a bulging pregnant belly already causes plenty of stares:

You don’t have to be Jimmy Kimmel to get the attention and care that your child needs at Children’s Hospital of Los Angeles!!! CHLA treats more than 300,000 children annually from every socioeconomic background imaginable. No child requiring care is ever turned away from CHLA, regardless of their ability to pay.

“If your baby is going to die, and it doesn’t have to, it shouldn’t matter how much money you make. I think that’s something that, whether you’re a Republican or a Democrat or something else, we all agree on that, right?”

Each year, one in 25 Los Angeles families need the comprehensive care of Children’s Hospital Los Angeles for their child. For some children, a quick trip to CHLA is all it takes for healing.  But for other more critical or complex cases, the stays can be longer or necessitate repeat trips to the hospital. It was this sad realization as I sat next to my baby, hooked up to machines, and recovering from 3 surgeries, in 3 days, that I realized how lucky my family was.   What if I didn’t have the  resources to stay by Oliver’s side? Or what if we lacked the village at home to care for my other son Jonah while I was at the hospital? Or what if my husband would lose his job if he came to the hospital?

And for those instances, some moms may be forced to make difficult choices—if they don’t have ready access to child care, they may have to choose between the child that is sick and the children who are well. Each and every time we enter the halls of CHLA, (and there have and will be many visits), it occurs to me that so many families, so many mothers do not have that village. They do not have that support.

Sadly, the care given at CHLA is greatly diminished when a caretaker isn’t present for a child since consent can’t be given by a minor and oftentimes treatment can’t be administered until a parent or guardian approves. Plain and simple, being at the bedside matters.

In the darkest of our hours, the brightest moment was the realization that we never had to make that choice. WE ARE LUCKY. And while CHLA helps thousands of children within their walls, I wanted to do all I could to provide support to the families outside the walls.

Last year, within 1 week of launching the CHLA #WeAreLucky campaign, we met our goal of $25,000. To date, we have raised over $48,000! And we want to keep going!

The average donation to CHLA is $24…all of our donations, big or small, matter to CHLA.

We hope this Mother’s Day you’ll join us again in taking the $25 dollar challenge. For $25, you can provide transportation—a taxi ride, a bus or train fare or a gas card that can mean the difference between having access to a friend or relative, someone they trust to watch their children while they rush to CHLA to watch over their little one. With just a $25 donation, you can get a mom exactly what she needs for mother’s day – a moment when she doesn’t have to worry when one of her children is very ill. 

Visit  www.CHLA.org/WeAreLucky 

Thank you and Happy Mother’s Day!

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House of Home and Family

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House of Home and Family

What do two babies under 2, a new house, a 4mm kidney stone, and a beautiful French Au Pair all have in common? C’est Moi, mes amis! C’est Moi!

The good news is life has been anything less than boring. The bad news is that I’ve been so distracted that I haven’t written a blog post since May. And before that since April. And before that since February. That’s 3 blog posts for 2017 for those of you counting at home.

For someone that prides herself on feeling productive, this has not been a very productive year on the writing and creativity front. But if you count productivity in terms of how many diapers you can go through in one day and how many children in your house refuse to sleep like normal human beings, then I win the productivity of the year award hands down.

But back to the kidney stone part.

On August 8, at 10:31pm, Peter (my husband- just in case you forgot his name) and I welcomed Everett Jack to the fucked up world. As you may recall, Oliver was delivered via c-section due to his breech position (which was due to the mass). So when Everett was born, it was really important for me that I try to deliver him naturally. I was thrilled that my doctor supported the idea of a VBac (Vaginal Birth After Cesarean) and even happier that my uterus showed signs of supporting said VBac … But when my due date of August 4th came and went, I started to get nervous that I’d be heading back to the operating room, thereby further exacerbating my FUPA. (That for another post. Lucky you).

But when I reaaaally started to get nervous was on Saturday, August 5th… Peter and I took the kids to go visit my parents and have lunch. We headed to a local deli and Peter decided to order Matzoh Brie (Click here for details on this jewish delicacy).

“You’re ordering Matzoh Brie?!”

“Yeah, why?” Peter said, handing his menu to the waiter.

“Um, because it’s August.”

“So?”

“Matzoh is eaten in like, what, March or April? During Passover…?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re out of season. No one eats Matzoh in the Summer. That’s weird.”

“You’re weird,” Jonah chimes in.

“Watch it,” Peter and I say simultaneously.

Well, wouldn’t you know, 2 hours later, Peter was having trouble from down under. As we’re about to leave my folks’ house (which is approx. 20 min from our house), Peter said he wasn’t feeling well. He had a terrible stomach ache and felt completely nauseated.

“Matzoh,” I said confidently. Men never listen.

But fifteen minutes later, while on our way home, Peter’s unleavened bread poisoning seemed to be taking a turn for the worse. At this point, he was white as a ghost, sweaty and in tears. No, literally, tears. It was so bad he was kicking the door and Jonah was screaming to call 911. Good thing traffic on the 101 was speedy that day. And by speedy I mean, Los Angeles.

Well… 5 miserable hours later, we walked out of the Emergency Room: I still with a baby with my stomach and Peter with a 4 mm kidney stone that also was to pass.

Yay. FUCKING YAY.

*Note* Did I mention the part where the ER was so overcrowded that they didn’t have a room for us so we were stuck in a hallway next to what I’m fairly certain were rotting corpses (everything smells like death when you’re pregnant) and I had to hold the urine cup/bed pan for Peter out in the open (No literally- his junk was out in the open because apparently when you’re in that much pain, you don’t give a flying fuck if the homeless man next to you is talking about deadly birds while staring at your manhood).

ANYWAY, if you’ve had or heard of a kidney stone, then you know how incredibly painful it is. But if you’ve had a baby or heard of what it’s like to be overdue then you can find it in your heart to have sympathy for both of us. Mostly me though. Because men are babies and I. STILL. HAD. TO. PUSH. A. BABY. OUT. OF. MY—

Tuesday, August 8th, 3:30am… I wake up with contractions… They continued for the next few hours and since I was planning for a VBac, laboring at home too long wasn’t an option. In case you already forgot, PETER STILL HAS NOT PASSED THE KIDNEY STONE AT THIS POINT. AND HE’S FUCKING MISERABLE. AND I’M FUCKING MISERABLE.

7:30am… We get to labor and delivery and I’m taken in to a room in triage. As I’m getting undressed and hooked up to the monitors to assess the contractions and my stage of labor (which is like 0.0 at this point), my husband also begins to take off his clothes and LAY ON THE FLOOR. OF THE HOSPITAL.

“Peter, what are you doing?”

“I’m dying.”

“You can’t die right now. I’m in labor.”

“So am I.”

“You’re on the FLOOR. Of a HOSPITAL.”

He grabs a spare blanket off MY bed and lays it on the floor. If I hadn’t only had water in the last 12 hours, I would have definitely thrown up right then and there.

“Honestly, Jen. I don’t know what to do… The pain keeps getting worse and worse…”

“You mean like my LABOR?”

Video of Peter on Hospital Floor

Let me be clear: If you think I was an asshole for being an asshole to my kidney stoning husband, well then I beg YOU to contract every 2 minutes without an epidural while your husband sits conveniently tucked away on the toilet in YOUR delivery room moaning while drowning his sorrows in twitter (please, no poop takes that long. We’re on to you, men) in hopes a stone passes through his hoo ha.

At approximately, 3:30 or 4pm in the afternoon, after having a foley balloon inserted in my hoo ha (you can google foley balloon on your own, friends) and shooting from 1cm to 4 cm in a half hour, Peter emerged from the bathroom looking victorious.

“I think I just passed the stone.”

“What? How do you know?”

“Because there’s a rock in the toilet. And I feel better.”

“That’s— FUCK. Having a contraction.”

“I think I passed it!”

“I. AM. HAVING. A. CONTRACTION.”

“Should I save the stone? I think I should save the stone.”

Across the room, I see him rummaging through what appears to be a completely STERILE cart made up of stuff that at some point will not only be touching areas on my body that I don’t want staph infected, but that also could be touching my perfectly new newborn! (If you’re sensing a germaphobe sitch here, you’re a really good comprehensive reader).

Just as Peter pulls out what looks likes an IV bag and a latex glove, the nurse enters. He excitedly tells her he passed his stone and wants to get it from the toilet. She is more amused than I’m hoping given I AM THE ONE IN GODDAMN LABOR, but I guess it’s exciting for everyone to see what a black stone that really is about 4mm looks after it’s traveled from your kidneys.

She gives him a urine sample cup to store his “treasure” in. I ask him to wash his hands for the 976th time, congratulate him for a job well done, and then tell him to:

“BUCK THE FUCK UP. IT’S MY TURN NOW.”

Okay, I didn’t say thaaat. But I did tell him to take the turkey sandwich he could finally stomach to eat OUT OF THE FUCKING ROOM NOW before I died from the smell of hospital deli meat and sour coleslaw.

I know what you’re thinking: I’ve got this team player thing down. I do marriage well.

After a few more hours of more ice chips than Cedars Sinai was prepared to make, and about 15 minutes of pushing, our beautifully round and blonde-haired baby entered the world.

Everett Jack Heilbron

10:31 pm

8lbs and 21 inches long.

After such a traumatic experience when Oliver was born, being able to deliver Everett vaginally was truly cathartic and healing for me. I knew that not only I would feel better physically compared to a c-section, but that emotionally, I would be able to walk away from the birth knowing that Peter and I had at least one chance to have that “it’s a boy!” moment and hug and kiss and cry without feeling terrified and confused. It was as perfect of a birth as I could have asked for. Minus maybe the kidney stone part.

Last month, my horoscope said:

“In your coming year, dear Virgo, you will put your talent for communications to good use.  Jupiter, there giver of gifts and luck, is now touring your third house of speaking and writing.  How well you make your ideas heard and how passionate you are about them will strongly color the coming year. (This is the good part): You will have a period of 13 months, from early October 2017 until early November 2018, to make your mark.  Saturn has been in your fourth house of home and family since December 2014 but will depart in December 2017….”

I love everything about this horoscope.  I have been in house and home since December 2014 (More on pregnancy and loss here). And while my priority will always be my family, I am ready to feel productive again… to make my mark…

I look forward to sharing my stories here again more frequently. And while things like husbands passing kidney stones during labor certainly make for a great story, I’m hoping that I can summon the old productive me… Share more mundane and mellow things like my favorite weekday salads, the new skin regimen I’m doing, and the time I broke my foot during my most recent labor. As in the one 9 weeks ago…

Yup. How’s that for productivity?

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That Mom… For the Win

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For the Win

Maybe it’s his age, (I hope it’s his age), but according to Jonah, everything we do is soooo boring and not cool. He “barely gets to (insert ANYTHING a 10-year old would like to do),” and he never, I repeat NEVER gets to stay up late or have a sleepover in our bed. Also, I should mention EVERTHING I cook “is soooo gross and is always organic or made with stevia.” (Okay, I admit, that’s like half true. One point for Jonah).

At seems like lately, on a daily basis, I become THAT mom: “Do you realize how lucky you are? How privileged you are?” I list all the things that are wrong in the world and by the end of my list he feels terrible and then, without fail, later that night as I’m tucking him in bed, he asks me if I think he’s spoiled. I tell him, of course not, he’s just lucky and that LOOK, he has his OWN BATHROOM and all these amazing toys and books, and MOM! I KNOW. (I go too far). He proceeds to tell me he feels bad that he complains and he knows that we do so many nice things for him. I tell him I know he knows, and just wish we didn’t have to have that battle. He is sad and so am I. Am I too hard on him, I wonder. I mean, he is a product of a divorce. Maybe I should be nicer. My mom guilt soars and I hate myself for being THAT mom earlier in the day… but at the same time I’m relieved that he knows how shitty he sounds and wants to show appreciation. We kiss and hug and it’s lights out for 45 seconds, and I’m just about sit down for the first time in 8 hours, until he calls me back in just to make sure I’m still upstairs. Mean mommy rears her ugly head again: “YES, I’M IN MY ROOM! GO. TO. SLEEP!” The minute it comes out of my mouth I feel like a mean wench but I’m so tired, can’t he just go the F to sleep, but I hate myself for yelling… especially on a night he’s with me. Poor child of divorce. I. Am. The. Worst. I sit down on my bed, finally, and wonder if I should walk back in and give him a hug because I’m a dismissive biatch. But my phone buzzes with a text from a friend and for a second I forget what an asshole I am, (thanks to her double laugh with tears emojis), until the baby monitor lights up with crying and I cry, “MOTHERFUCKER,” and then yep, the mom guilt cycle starts ALL. OVER. AGAIN.

But back to child number one….

Jonah has decided that when he grows up, he wants to be (in this order), “A baseball player, a scientist that does stuff in a lab, a doctor, or a YouTube celebrity.” He’s made it clear though that being a baseball player is his number one goal and even though he only goes to practice once a week, he’d like to be the starting pitcher. (Can you blame him for having gigantic goals?) Anyway, his love for baseball has come full circle this year as we watched our beloved Dodgers make their way to the World Series.

Of course, like any 10-year old with a love for a sport and team that makes their way into the championships, Jonah asked if there was annnnnny way we could take him. At first the answer(s) was no, HAVE YOU SEEN THE PRICES OF TICKETS (which was said in the same tone of DO YOU REALIZE THERE ARE CHILDREN WITHOUT DINNER TONIGHT?)

But then Game 6 rolled around and Peter and I just got caught up with the idea of taking him and the magnitude of the surprise and the memories that would be made that HE WILL REMEMBER FOREVER.

FUCK IT. 11:15am, Tuesday, October 31st, 2017, World Series Tickets were purchased! (And the crowd goes wild!)

I’d like to walk you through each and every moment of that day, and that evening, because, my god, I don’t want to forget any second of it. (Don’t worry, I won’t. I’m just saying, I would like to)…

As we walked from our car to the big blue stadium, he held my hand and said “I don’t see any kids, here. Am I the only kid at the game?”

“Of course not. There will be other kids. Just maybe not as many as other games because it’s Halloween,” Peter said.

“Am I spoiled? I’m spoiled, aren’t I? I feel bad.”

I stopped and looked at him. “Jonah, you are not spoiled. You are LUCKY. Do you hear me? This is LUCKY. This is not spoiled. This is AWESOME. And I want you to enjoy every single second.”

For the next 5 hours, he (WE) truly did enjoy every second – except when I swore to him that the food stand I took him to had French fries in a hat and it did not and he haaaaad to have the nachos. Wah. Luckily, I didn’t have to get too “mean mommy” on him and simply said, “Jonah, you’re at the World Series. There are worse tragedies in the world.” From then on out, it was pure fun. And pure, uninterrupted time with my boy. My sweet, sweet, Dodger loving, sassy mouthed, still mommy-cuddling boy.

Here are some highlights of what I will remember from that night:

-His smile when he opened the envelope and saw “World Series” tickets. He was speechless for the first time in 10 years (and this kid is a chatty little monkey).

-When Peter told him he had $100 to buy anything he wanted at the stadium so that he could remember this forever, he said it was too much. And he didn’t need that much. “Maybe I can find something for Oliver and Everett too.”

-Him holding my hand as we walked through the parking lot towards the stadium. “We’re staying for the WHOLE game, right? The WHOLE game?” Without a question, my son, the whole game.

-Walking him to the bathroom and waiting in line for him amidst a sea of grown men. My anxiety was soaring. “Don’t talk to anyone in there. And if a guy tries to high five you, just ignore him and leave.” “Mom,” he said, “If a Dodgers’ fan wants to high five me, I’m not leaving him hanging. We’re rooting for the same team.” “Okay, but wash your hands.”

-Singing the 7th inning stretch arm in arm. Perhaps one of the top moments of my life.

-Telling him that I had a good feeling about Joc Pederson right before he hit his home run. And then he did. And then we went crazy.

-His amazement when I said, “Look ‘Silver Fox’ is up.” “You know they call Utley ‘Silver Fox?!” (Yup. Thanks to you Vin Scully Jr. I learned it from you!).

-The last at bat – when Kenley Jansen shut it down. Jonah’s face was priceless. To jump and cheer next to him… It will go down as one of the most exhilarating moments of my life. One of those moments that you literally forget about everything else in the world—all the scariness, the stress, the ups and downs. In that moment, it was just FUN. HAPPINESS. JUMPS and HIGH FIVES. And a 10-year old who got to see his idols win a World Series Game! (Because boy, did they sure fuck it up in Game 7).

Somewhere during the 6th inning, after he told me various facts about each of the Dodgers and things I need to know about the game, he turned to me and said, “I’m glad I got to do this with you. Like, most kids probably don’t do these things with their moms. It’s kind of a dad thing. But it’s cool it’s with you.” I squeezed his hand. And then I envisioned that in 30 years, the next time the Dodgers go to the World Series (sorry Dodgers fans, it’s just that history usually repeats itself), Jonah will have children of his own and he will say to his kids, “Look at this picture of me and your Grammy,” (because that is what my name will be), “she took me to my first World Series game. Just me and her.”

“Wow! Just you and her? That’s cool,” my princess dress wearing,  (inevitably) curly-haired, sparkly-eyed grand-daughter says. (Because someone better have a girl after all this).

“Yep. It was really cool. I was a lucky kid. And she… well, she was THAT mom.”

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‘Let it Snow’ at the Four Seasons Westlake!

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Let it Snow at the Four Seasons Westlake!

Last weekend my cute crew and I headed to the Four Seasons Westlake for their annual ‘Let it Snow’ holiday event. A family favorite year after year, the ‘Let it Sow’ event features a holiday wonderland with festive bounce houses, train rides, professional photos with Santa, cookie decorating and more. Oliver went completely nuts for the “More” portion: ELMO and COOKIE MONSTER. Need I say more? (Literally). No seriously, brilliant move on the event team’s part— nothing says holiday happiness more than those two characters. They don’t even need to be dressed in an ugly holiday sweater. That’s how loved they are.

When you walk into this winter wonderland at the FS Westlake, you’re greeted by two giant reindeers and signs telling you which way the fun is. Want to decorate cookies? Head in with Cookie Monster and Mrs. Claus to decorate your own cookie. We loved this! The train ride was also a huge hit – with the beautiful lights dangling above and even a visit at the end from The Grinch. The “Frozen” themed bouncie house was also a huge draw for my littles. Speaking of draws, it wouldn’t be the holidays without some “spirits.” The full bar made it especially “toasty” for me and Peter and the other parents trying to wrangle their littles. (I appreciate an event where I can see another mom, wine and toddler in hand and we have that automatic “I feel you sister” moment). We also made a pitstop at the S’Mores firepits – because who can resist roasted marshmallows with chocolate before heading to dinner! (Hey, ‘tis the season!) We ended the afternoon with a delicious early dinner in the lobby lounge where we joined friends for (some more wine) and a yummy Italian Buffet. We literally had to yank Oliver from the hotel; there is a beautiful winter village train set set up in the lobby and of course, my Thomas obsessed boy(s) loved watching this.

Honestly, this was a perfect weekend afternoon. The Four Seasons Westlake has always been a favorite of ours. It’s like a little getaway only, it’s just a few miles from our house. I love how festive and fun the Let it Snow event is and know we’ll make this a tradition every year!

The Hotel’s popular Winter Wonderland package is back and offers guests an all-inclusive family holiday experience.

Package includes:

  • Overnight accommodations
  • VIP admission to the sixth annual ‘Let It Snow’ event
  • Holiday Character Breakfast on Saturday or Sunday (includes photo op with holiday characters)
  • 25% savings on dinner in the Lobby Lounge
  • Complimentary self-parking and premium Internet access
  • Optional Elf Tuck-Ins & Bedtime Stories ($25 per room, per night)

The sixth annual ‘Let It Snow’ event is the highlight of the Winter Wonderland Package. Every Friday and Saturday evening from December 1 – 16, 2017, Four Seasons Hotel Westlake Village invites guests to the popular holiday event with a multitude of festive activities.

  • Festive season bounce houses
  • Holiday Express train rides
  • Professional photos with Santa at the North Pole
  • Cookie decorating with Mrs. Claus
  • Holiday music
  • Live snowfall
  • Elf storytime
  • S’mores, hot cocoa & coffee

In addition, every Saturday and Sunday morning from December 2- 17, 2017, the Hotel will host a Holiday Character Breakfast. This farmer’s market breakfast includes fresh local fruit, a gourmet omelet station, traditional brunch favorites and much more. To add to this magical morning, guests will have the opportunity to meet some of their favorite holiday characters.

Package rates start at $379 per night for two guests; each additional guest is $30. To reserve the Winter Wonderland package or for more information, please contact Four Seasons Hotel Westlake Village at (818) 575-3000.

Special thanks to the Four Seasons for hosting us! CHEERS!

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Oh, The Places You Were SUPPOSED To Go

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1988. Washington D.C.
Desk of Paul Simon.
Like a BOSS

Oh, The Places You Were Supposed To Go

It’s 3:42pm. I’m standing in the lobby of a shitty building in North Hollywood. There’s an entrance to a bank outside the elevator bank where I’m waiting, and judging the covers of every “book,” I’m fairly certain this place could be robbed at any moment. Is someone going to come down to get me or what? I was supposed to go up for an interview at 3:30. I’ve now read the woman from HR’s email 15 times (yes, I did “dress appropriately,” thanks for reminding me. I didn’t realize it was 1992). I have called her desk line and cell phone, like she said, in order to get buzzed up. I’m assuming I need to be buzzed up because of all the bank robberies that must occur. WHY AM I HERE. I call again. No answer. 3:48. I send an email to HR lady and the guy I’m supposed to meet with. Subject line only: “In Lobby Waiting for Access Up.” I realize this already makes me looks demanding, but my legs are cold because I’m wearing an “appropriate” dress and the wind tunnel between the parking lot and entrance to the bank will undoubtedly cause hoo-ha hypothermia if I stay here any longer. I realize I better text Peter and tell him if he never hears from me again, it’s because I was caught in the line of fire during the bank robbery shootout. 3:53. I’M GIVING IT TWO MORE MINUTES AND I’M OUT OF HERE. I do want to join “the workforce” again, (aka make money) but I already hate this job. And this building. It smells like an old ashtray. 3:57. I check my email for a response. Nothing. Let me guess, the server is down… probably because the robbers have cut the wires in the bank. Why does my luck suck. This is not how I want to go. In 3 minutes I’m FOR REAL calling an audible and getting out of the world’s most dangerous building. I need to go to Whole Foods for more Miracle Noodles. Because Miracle Noodles are god’s gift from plant-based heaven.

“JENNIFER?”

A man emerges from the elevator and extends his hand. I know who he is. (The intra-web is a wonderful, wonderful thing).

“I’m so sorry, “ he says shaking my hand. “I just saw your email.”

“No worries. I was just about to leave. I’m glad you caught me,” I say with every ounce of patience and sweetness I have. I want to be at Whole Foods taking pictures of Cauliflower Tortillas and Coconut Chips and texting it to my girlfriends to find out if they’re approved on our diet. That’s my true calling. Food finding. Is that a job? It should be. I have a friend who can find anything you want on eBay for like a fraction of the price. I should find food for people.

Oh wait. That’s called Instacart. Ugh. I always miss the boat.

But back to this interview. This goddamn interview. That I applied for. Yep, I, ME, put MYSELF up to this. No one has a gun to my head. There’s no pressure, per se. Just three children. And our dwindling funds.

The party’s over. I need a job.

Be nice, Jenny. Be open minded, I tell myself as I walk through the office past a bullpen of what I assume are marketers- the kind that call me from some weird number in Colorado and I pick up knowing that I don’t know anyone in Colorado and hang up as soon as I hear them say, “Hi, Jennifer. This is—“ Click. I know it’s a water purification company (no it’s not), but the pool of marketers don’t look like they belong here. I feel like they should be selling me cell phones. From 1998. They’ve all got a special twinge of cheesiness- from overly gelled hair to black button downs with red ties, I wonder HOW I GOT HERE and feel a piece of my soul die as I walk past their desks with Fred leading the way. (Spoiler alert: That’s not Fred’s real name either).

Growing up, my mom used to tell me to always: “Play the game, Jenny. Play. The. Game.” It was basically her way of saying, suck it up, smile, and do what you need to do to get whatever it is you want. Well, I wanted to be an actress. From the time I was Oliver’s age, becoming a Broadway sensation was all I ever wanted. Once I got to NYU though, I shifted from dreams of singing on Broadway (‘cuz apparently you have to have a good voice for that) to dreams of being the next Neve Campbell. (Btw, If Party of 5 wasn’t everything to you at some point, we should not be friends). So from 1994-1998 I played the game by of course attending school, but also by taking on extra jobs… I nannied, I waitressed, I worked on campus for the registrar, and I waitressed some more. Oh, I also interned for a casting agent… I must have felt in my gut that acting wasn’t going to be my forever… Because for a brief moment I thought maybe I should be a casting agent. I had been told I was good enough but it was always about my looks—too fat, not fat enough, etc… And I thought: if I wasn’t going to ever have a role like Angela Chase aka lover and hater of all things Jordan Catalano (we are speaking the same language right?), then maybe I should FIND the next Claire Daines. Maybe I’m supposed to be behind the camera. Maybe I’m supposed to have a real job. Have a 9 to 5. A life. A family.

I did really want a family. I wanted to be a mom. I always knew that… from an early age. I mean, you don’t adopt 3 Cabbage Patch Dolls and give them names like Lorraine Scarlett if you aren’t serious about motherhood. So even in college, while studying under theater giants like William Macy and Felicity Huffman, I think I sort of had one foot out the backdoor, so to speak. Perhaps I didn’t “want it enough?” That’s what one talent manager once told me.

Of course, I was also told this 4 years later when I was back in LA and working as a programming assistant to two big executives at a television studio. “We don’t think you want it enough,” they said to me after 6 glorious months (or maybe it was 3), of working their desks. “Also, you’re a super shitty assistant.” Okay, they didn’t say that but they didn’t have to. I dropped calls, I forgot to schedule appointments, and I didn’t kiss their asses. It also didn’t help that I cared more about auditing the writers’ workshop they mentored than doing whatever it was that I was supposed to do. Like order them lunch? Can’t these ladies walk to the commissary themselves and pick out their own salad.

Well, a couple months later I discovered that all industry executives expect a certain level of chopped salad ordering skills. This time, I was going to get it right (because I needed money) and because I was a temp for a MAJOR, I mean MAJOR Studio Head. I was filling in as the 3rd assistant and tasked with helping his wife who had her own production arm. In addition to holding the garbanzo beans on the salad and putting shoes on hold for her at Nieman’s, I also was asked to read a script and give my thoughts. I turned in my coverage and apparently did it well. I was then asked to stay on and be their assistant, but stupidly I declined. I wanted to move up. I feared that maybe I would be stuck making dinner reservations for them and delivering messages to their kids through their nannies. *I* was the one with IDEAS. STORIES. EXPERIENCE. (Did I mention I had already spent a year as a production assistant on a show featuring celebrity homes. No spoiler needed: It was actually called that). I was more than a lunch picker upper. So hear me fucking roaaaar.

Unfortunately, my next job/ boss liked my lunch picking skills too and I found myself on daily calls with Koo Koo Roo placing his order. (Goddamn this motherfucker likes chicken. Change it up, dude. Change it up). My favorite thing about being his assistant was the fact that I had full access to his Variety and Hollywood Reporter; every morning he would walk by my desk, sweep them up, and politely PLOP them back down on his way back from the bathroom. Glamorous, I know.

One day though, the pooped on trades became my lucky charm. I had had this idea brewing for a screenplay about a girl who is cast in a dating reality show but falls in love with the producer instead. People, if you think this is lame and unoriginal, let me remind you this was 2002 or maybe 2003! I got the idea from my “acting days” when I auditioned for a little show called “Blind Date.” They needed actors, because there wasn’t a thing called “reality” yet. Anyway, one day, post poop (his, not mine), I picked up the Hollywood Reporter and read some article about some management company that just sold a romantic comedy. The name of one of the executives rang a bell… I looked at my boss’ calendar. They had a call coming up in the next day or so. I have no idea what gave me the courage to do it, but when she called in, before plugging her through, I told her I read the article and that I too had a romantic comedy written (I did not. Not yet) and would she maybe consider reading it. She said yes, and I then spent the next 4 months banging out a pretty cute script with my then writing partner. Not only did this executive read it, but it shopped around at dozens of production companies and we met with many of them- including the one where I temped as the third assistant.

Sadly, the script came very close to selling, but it never did. And I found myself ordering Koo Koo Roo for another few years.

Speaking of chicken, as I sit at this interview across from Frank, I envision what future lunch breaks would look like if I ever had to work there. I wonder who might be the Michael Scott of the office. Would I be the Pam? Frank is definitely Dwight.

I mean that’s how bad this is.

“Tell me a little bit about your experience with photo shop,” Frank asks with a piercing grin.

“I don’t have any experience with photo shop,” I say a bit apologetically.

“Okay, well that’s fine. We can teach you.” I smile and nod but my heart is saying, “I’m really not interested in learning photoshop, okay. I just spent the last month having my 10 year old teach me how to use certain filters on instagram. This is about all the photo editing skills I can handle at this moment.”

Fred asks me a bunch of lame questions about my experience as a Web Content Strategist and Social Media Manager. As I explain to him my role(s), I realize that I probably register somewhere near “Meh” on this particular career trajectory. Is that really where I was supposed to end up?

“So I think I will want you to meet (Insert the name of a man that sounds like he runs the Russian Mafia). When you meet him though, you’ll have to sell yourself. You’ll have to impress him.”

“I can do that.” You know that feeling of shame combined with nausea you get after you consume one too many taco supremes and bean and cheese burritos while crammed between two screaming babies on the ride home from Palm Springs after a 3-day weekend? (Oh, wait. Is that just me?) Well, that’s how I felt.

Frank ended our interview by asking the most important question: “What is your desired salary?” I’ll spare you the back and forth on this short-lived convo, but let’s put it this way. My answer basically made him choke, shut down the interview and the chance to ever work there. (Was it wrong to ask for 2 million dollars a year?)

I walked to my car and took a deep breath. That was a big fat fucking waste of time.

But as I sit here tonight, coming down from watching The Golden Globes, I kind of feel like maybe my little meet and greet with Frank was worth every second. Maybe it was an out of the way – cheesily dressed- roasted cauliflower sacrificed-opportunity to tell ANOTHER STORY. Tonight Queen Oprah said “speaking your truth is the most powerful thing we all have.” I know this mostly pertains to the brave and courageous women that have come forward during the #MeToo movement, but her speech resonated with me (as they are wont to do). My interview with Frank and the 30 minutes I spent rehashing every career step that led me to an office that made me feel like I could leave with a staph infection, was ultimately the chance for me to once again walk away feeling like I should be doing something else. THIS. WRITING THIS. MY truth. Telling my story.

So…Frank… Thanks for the memories I guess. By the way, should you call me and not be able to reach me, please know that I am likely at lunch, attempting to eat my own chopped salad while my assistant (aka Oliver, age 2) deletes every app from my phone. Kids these days….

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Dear Dog People of America

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The day we got Apple…

Dear Dog People of America,

I am writing to you today in an effort to merge our two worlds: the world of
people that cry during animal rescue commercials, and the world of people that do not cry during animal rescue commercials. I fall in to the please keep reading so you don’t hate me category…

You see much like Elsa, I’ve spent most of my life in the icy world of Arendelle where it is eternal winter and dogs are not allowed… In my heart. Well, I mean, they’re allowed, but because it’s so cold, they’re just not welcome.

The only pet I ever had was a black cat given to me by best friend Tiffany when I was 6 years old. We called her “Sweetie,” but sweet she was not. I don’t remember how, or why, but Sweetie didn’t live with my mom and I for very long. Everyone in my family had animals: My Nana had a dog named Winkie- a black Cockapoo that I adored. My aunt had this huge sheep dog named Chelsea and I loved to lay on her because she reminded me of Snuffleupagus. My Dad and Stepmom had a few dogs through the years; my favorite was a Golden retriever named Travis… Until he ran away… or killed a neighbor. Either way, he wasn’t around forever. And the other animals… well they eventually died too, and I don’t think I was heartbroken. I loved them but I didn’t loooooove them.

As time went on and I got older, that genetic makeup that some most of you have that gives you the feeling of wanting to hug and kiss any dog you see on the street, never evolved. It’s not like it was just dogs either, it was pretty much all animals. Listen, I cried while reading Gorillas in the Mist like the rest of you, but touching one at the Zoo would probably give me the willies. God help me if I had a friend with a rabbit. EW. And don’t even get me started on pet birds or birds in general. DISGUSTING. They should be extinct. (I mean, you realize you’re talking to someone that flushed fish down the toilet as a ritual on Purim right?)

It became very apparent as I entered adulthood that I was very different from the rest of the world: I was not an animal person.

When Peter and I started dating, we bonded over the fact that neither of us felt that pull towards our primate counterparts. We rolled our eyes at our friends that were content with their “fur babies.” Not us. We were building a HUMAN family. And by the way, is it necessary for our friends to insist we meet at a restaurant where they can bring Muffy the lab? Or how about that I don’t really feel like having my crotch sniffed every time we visit friends with Tank the German Shepherd. It wasn’t our thing. HOWEVER, I always found my friends’ photos of their babies and puppies nuzzled together simply adorable and hoped that maybe, just MAYBE my predisposition to a life without animal love might change. Maybe, just MAYBE my social feeds would be filled with darling images of my children cuddling our puppy.

So, in November of 2016, on a very purposeful whim, we got Apple.

Purposeful and whim. I know. They don’t go together. But they do.

See there were a couple of things happening, all of which were related and led to this divine moment where we went home with a dog on November 19, 2016.
• I turned 40 in September of 2016 and we wanted another baby and were open to “trying” again in October or November.
• At some point in (his) life, I promised Jonah a dog when he turned 10.
• 10 would happen in September of 2017; which might also be the time when I possibly maybe could have a baby if things go smoothly in the “trying” department. And if I’m being honest, history had proven that I didn’t need to “try” very hard.
• Our neighbors had the cutest dog and Oliver was obsessed with her. He was due for another surgery in December. Impressionable would be an understatement in our emotional department.
• Trump was elected president.

So TO SUM IT UP: On November 16th, we decided to head to the adoption event (where our neighbors had gotten their dog years before) because Oliver was cute with their dog, I didn’t want to have a new puppy at the same time as a new baby, and Trump was now president so the world was coming to an end anyway.

What we didn’t know (because again, we are not animal people), is that you don’t go to a fucking animal adoption WITH YOUR YOUNG CHILDREN to “check it out.” Because if you have any semblance of a heart (which despite what you’re thinking, I swear I do), you don’t LEAVE without a goddman pet. A PET THAT IS NOT THE PET THAT YOU THOUGHT YOU WERE LEAVING WITH. (Mistake #1 & #2). Let me backtrack: So we go to this event and there are teeny tiny puppies in cribs all around the room. It’s crowded and crazy and we notice one crib of puppies with a couple “Shih-tzus.” One by the name of Apple… She’s like 4lbs, 4 weeks old, and of course is looking right at us and saying “If you take me home, I will be your best friend forever.”

“AWWWWWW,” we all say together as Jonah lifts her out of the crib. She’s gorgeous. Blue eyes, soft fur. A defining grey spot. I mean, doesn’t get cuter than this. I track down one of the people working for the rescue and ask about Apple. She tells me she was in an alley with the rest of her brothers and sisters (so I guess she was found?) She had some issues with worms and some infection, but she’s fine now. BUT she has already been spayed (which I didn’t know was a bad thing considering she was only 4 weeks old!), has the microchip, AND she is a SHIH-TZU and IS HYPOALLERGENIC AND WILL. NOT. SHED. “AT ALL.”

She even takes out her phone and shows me pictures of her dogs who are also Shih Tzu terrier mixes and they “make the best dogs in the world. Especially if you or kids have allergies.” PERFECT!

Just to make completely sure, we also track down the head of the rescue – the guy who apparently REALLY knows about dogs and different breeds. HE tells us that Apple was with a family and they couldn’t take care of all the dogs… This of course conflicts with what the other woman told us, but I wonder if it matters as she’s okay now (has been de-wormed and spayed and appears to be healthy). He TOO confirms that she’s a Shihtzu and won’t shed or cause me to cough up phlegm for 6 straight months. (Ooops… jumping ahead here!)

SO… a little bit of paperwork, a lovely donation of $500 to the rescue and a swift kick in the ass (Uh, just head to aisle 3 to pick up food and a leash and you’re good to go), and we are out of there. No really, that was it. Signed some shit, got some copies of her first vet visit and the microchip and they sent us on our way. A home visit was not required nor was it requested.

And like that, we had a puppy home with us.

ALL (and I mean ALL of our friends) nearly DIED when we told them about the newest member of our family because well, WE DON’T LIKE  ARE NOT animal people. BUT we assured them that now was a good time. We had seen the light and while not at all not entirely thought through, we were ready for Apple and would TURN INTO the kinds of people that know what to do with a puppy and don’t need to call everyone they know to ask how to take a dog on a walk or when/if she needs water.

At first, (and by first I mean the first 24 hours), we thought Apple was the chillest dog ever. We thought she exuded ZERO puppy characteristics and we hit the jackpot.

Then she started pooping and peeing everywhere (important) and we realized we knew nothing about dogs.

Months and thousands of dollars spent on training and super LA healthy dog stuff later, we found ourselves still struggling to weave Apple into our lives seamlessly. Well, also maybe the fact that we were still overcoming the emotional and physical recovery from Oliver’s surgery, a move to a new house, and oh, the arrival of Everett (also known as my third child). So yeah. We were/are fermisht, to say the least. (You can find the definition to Fermisht here, my non-Yiddish loves).

Look, here’s the deal: Most of you don’t need to “remember” to take out your dog for a walk. Or you don’t have to ask other people in your house, “Has anyone spent time holding and cuddling Apple today?” OR you don’t have babies and toddlers that play with toys ON THE FLOOR, that inevitably end up in your baby/toddler puppy’s mouth. Right? You have either an older dog or an older child, and are not constantly finding Minnie Mouse’s shoes, or Thomas the Train’s engine in your dog’s poo and then wondering when the day will come that you will have to make the agonizing decision of whether you should agree to the $6,000 surgery to remove Percy from her butthole or not. (You automatically say, “Anything it takes!” WE say, “Fuuuuuuuuuck me.”) And here’s the thing, it’s not that I wish ill will on animals or even that I don’t care- I DO. HOWEVER, the reality of OUR situation was that I have two children that will be playing on the floor with small toxic Chinese-made toys for at least another 4 years. And while chewing is what puppies do, I’m going to choose my kid’s development over a puppy’s habit any and every time. (Just for the record, she chewed up the eco-friendly wood stuff too. Don’t even get me started on the fear I had about splinter’s in her butt).

SO… one night we had the talk. We had had many talks about how Apple was hard for us but this was different. This was happening. We needed to find her a better home… And a home that wouldn’t be suffering from terrible allergies as I was (it had gotten worse and worse over the months). Devastated and feeling guilty that it was his fault and he should have been a better “brother,” Jonah cried and asked that we make sure that we’d find the best, most amazing home for Apple. I explained to him that it’s not like we were awful to her. In essence, we fostered her for a year. We took good care of her and gave her a nice home to live in. But we weren’t her “forever” home. (“The sun’ll come out tomorrrrooooowww…”)

That night, literally minutes after our talk, as I was walking Apple, a neighbor who I always knew had a “thing” for Apple (and all dogs in general) walked by and gave her nightly hugs to Apple. I said, “I’m glad I ran into you. We came to a tough decision, but I think it’s time that we—“

“I was waiting for this day. I will help you find a home for her.”

“Wait, wha-“ How in the fuck did she know I was talking about Apple and not perhaps, getting a divorce, or I don’t know, getting rid of one my other kids. Was I that bad of an owner?

“I knew a day would come when you would ask for my help. You’re overwhelmed, I can see it. It’s okay. You have a lot going on. Having a puppy with two babies is not easy. We’ll find her an awesome home.”

So apparently our struggle was not only real, but obvious!

Less than a week later, I agreed to send Apple to a foster family via a Rescue Agency that had another dog and cat (after an initial “test” visit, it was determined that Apple got along with them swimmingly). From there, she would be adopted…. Only she wasn’t… well she was… but not by another family. The Foster Family fell in love with her and couldn’t let her go! THIS FOSTER HOME HAS TAKEN IN DOZENS OF DOGS OVER THE YEARS AND FOUND THEM OTHER HOMES, BUT NOT OUR APPLE! THEY HAD TO HAVE HER! AND did I mention that one of my good friends happens to know the woman who adopted her. Apple is now in a home with an older dog, a young cat, and a woman who makes amazing baked goods AND welcomes the opportunity for the boys to visit her any time. Apple literally got adopted by Daddy Warbucks (wait, does that make me Miss Hannigan?!)

Apple’s new family…

SO, Dog People of America, now that you’ve heard my story and have either decided that I’m the devil, an irresponsible human, or just annoyingly wordy (that has nothing to do with this dog thing, but I realize this letter is quite long), I am THANKING YOU for being the fur baby loving crazy people that we are not, and will likely never be. THANK YOU for your dog doting Instagram feeds and babies nuzzled next to your puppy. They are so cute! SO cute in fact it made me think that it was something I wanted to have too and something that I could handle. But alas, I have learned the truth, the hard way, and even the little sad way. My feed is meant for curly haired 2 year olds with dirty glasses nuzzled against a sass-mouthed 10 year old, with a 6 month old baby waving his hands in the background to be noticed. My feed is for recipes that I’m trying and inevitably fucking up. It’s for random date night pics, pretty sunrise and sunsets, faces with filters, and pictures of coffee or wine (because that’s what gets me through life). You won’t find dogs on my Insta or in my world, and I’m now okay with that. Are you? Can we still be friends?

Speaking of friends, can you please tell YOUR friends to stop bringing their dogs to Starbucks? I’m pretty sure dogs are not supposed to have coffee.

With love,
Jenny

The post Dear Dog People of America appeared first on Perfectly Disheveled.


I WEIGHED MY JEANS

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I WEIGHED MY JEANS

I have a confession: I weighed my pants. Like stripped down and put my jeans ON the scale.

I waited for a number to come up. Nothing.

Zero.

I took them off the scale and tried it again.

Zero point zero.

Fuck. There goes that plan.

I was on my way to the doctor, the LADY doctor to be exact. Not for anything in particular, just a yearly check-up to make sure all my parts are still functioning after three babies. (Happy to report my reproductive system is still on fleek). ANYWAY, with a 10:00am appointment I was panicking a bit. Not because of the inevitable traffic to head over the hill to Cedars. No. That would be logical. But because at 10:00am, I would have already had breakfast and a shit ton of coffee. With all that in my system, the scale at the doctor’s would be waaaaayoff. And I would apologize to the nurse as if she gives a shit (about me not shitting that morning thereby affecting the outcome).

Now before I go on, let me say that I’m writing this as a cry for help. I’m calling on my sisters and fellow moms, who feel me and hear me. Body image is an issue almost every woman has dealt with at some point or another in their lives, right? But do most people agonize over what time their last meal was before they get to the doctor’s office (unless they have to fast beforehand)? The answer is likely, or generally, NO. They get to the doctor, follow the nurse back, step on the stupid scale and it is what it is. They don’t feel the NEED to take off their shoes, shirt, pants, wedding band, earring in the second hole —because people, I WILL and I HAVE.  But today, I didn’t want to be a total freak, so I weighed my jeans AHEAD of time so I could give myself a little mental break and cut myself some slack when she marked the number in my chart (Because in my head, I would know that that’s not the REAL number. I would be able to subtract the jeans and it wouldn’t be as high as what she was seeing. Of course, I wouldn’t TELL her that I weighed my jeans and that she should subtract that number too, because THAT IS CRAZY. Nope. I wanted to play the role of a person that gets on the scale CONFIDENTLY… like I had places to get to and things to do and weight is a waste of my headspace so look at me, I just step on scales like it’s no big thing.

Except it is. It always has been. Even when I was 122lbs at my wedding(s), (hey, how many people can say they got skinny for TWO weddings. Hooray for me!), I agonized over numbers. I was svelte and wearing cut-off white jean shorts that I would KILL to fit in now and yet, I thought I was FAT. I have never felt perfect in my skin. And I hate that. I don’t want that anymore.

Except we’re leaving for Mexico. Tomorrow. And in a month after that, we’re going to a wedding on Martha’s Vineyard and seersucker is synonymous with skinny. (At least on ShopBop it is). And I had these GOALS. Nine months ago, when Everett, my strawberry blonde who do you look like baby, came into the world, I told myself that baby weight was/HAD to go fast. When it wasn’t going fast, I asked for a blood work-up, because OBVIOUSLY, I had to have thyroid issues. Nope. Just fat. So, I kept pounding away at the pavement, so to speak. A clean/ Whole 30 diet, a three-day high fiber shakes only diet here, a week long intermittent 700 calorie a day fast there, a ketogenic diet, a no carb- lean protein – low fat diet, a fuck it- I’m eating whatever I want diet (which btw inevitably leads back to diet #1, 2, or 3) – I do/did them all. And you know what the result is: Sure, a little bit of weight loss here and there, but mostly: A GREAT BIG FEAR OF FOOD.

I LOVE FOOD. I AM AN EATER. AT BREAKFAST, I AM ALREADY THINKING ABOUT DINNER, AND AT DINNER, I’M ALREADY THINKING ABOUT WHAT WE’RE HAVING NEXT WEEK FOR DINNER. This is partially a Brandt Family OCD/ genetic thing and also a ‘I truly love and enjoy food’ thing. BUT NOW, I look at food like the enemy. I ingest it and immediately HATE what it will do to my body.

THIS HAS BECOME SOME FUCKED UP SHIT, PEOPLE.

And yes, I realize that being 48 pounds down from what I was the day Everett was born is great. It’s GREAT, Jenny. It’s GREAT. In my head, it’s mother-fucking great. But in my skin, in the mirror, I am not great. I could be better. I could be more. I could eat better, eat less, workout more, workout harder, LOSE another 15 pounds and THEN, THEN I would be OKAY.

Well, people of the Perfectly Disheveled fan club (Hi, Nana): I am hereby announcing: I AM DONE WITH THIS SHIT. Done, I tell ya!  And it’s not just because I heard Brene Brown speak last week at Mom2.0 Summit (Okay, maybe it is a little bit because of her). But it’s because I want to live my life celebrating our luck and our joy. I want to live in THAT. Not self-hate. Whatever she said STUCK. Something resonated. The dialogue in my soul shifted and asked for HELP. People, I’m ready to be vulnerable. (Actually, I don’t know if that’s what I need to be, but she did talk a lot about vulnerability. Okay, wait.  Maybe that’s a different chapter in the book. But I’m ready for something. And if I was listening correctly, you can’t be great or OKAY without being vulnerable. So there).

Anyway, I don’t know if the universe is trying to tell me something, or if there has been some sort of shift in the social media cosmos all together, but I’m finding a lot body positive role models and images. I’m stalking getting sucked into the vortex stumbling on to pages women sharing photos of themselves in bathing suits or clothing that are not size 2’s, sharing candid and personal insight into their own self-love, worth, and confidence. Women like Jenna Kutcher  modeling what body love looks like.

Her caption goes on to say:

“Want a bikini body? Put a damn bikini on your body. If I had a magazine, the headlines would read a little different: How to love the skin you’re in, how to feel whole with yourself (instead of trying to find someone who completes you), how to come home to your body.
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Stop believing you’re not worthy, stop hiding because fear tells you to, stop waiting for confidence to find you, and start doing the work every time you look in the mirror.
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This was the first bikini I wore in YEARS and the only thing that changed was the way I loved myself just as I am. You’re capable of that, too.” 

(You can’t see me right now but I’m literally doing an Oprah YESSSS! dance right now. Preach Jenna! Preach!)

Even celebrities like Reese Witherspoon are sharing words and quotes about self-love and being “enough.”


Instagram, your algorhythm works because this is what I want to see. This is what I need.

So now what. Now what do I do? Aside from seeing my therapist more than once a month these days, WHAT DO I DO? HOW DO I FIX MYSELF? How do I step out of my own way and spend time focusing on things that matter like WRITING THIS or FINISHING THOSE SCRIPTS, or here’s a novel idea: SPENDING TIME WITH MY KIDS. Actually, I get enough of them. I’m good on that. But you catch my drift.

And while I don’t have a daughter and don’t have to think about all that comes with body changes as they enter their teens, I do have three boys. And I’m already starting to see bits and pieces of negative thoughts and body self-consciousness and it breaks my heart. Kids pick up our baggage through osmosis. And this is one piece that I’m not going to let my boys carry around. I want to raise self-aware, self-loving little warriors. Self-loving warrior. That’s what I want for myself.

So, what does it take? What does it take to look at the mirror and love what you see? What does it take to eat food without worrying about what it will do to your body aside from fueling and nourishing you? What does it take to have balance? To exercise because it feels good and not because you’re trying to lose those last, 5, 10, 15 pounds?

Please, please, please, share your comments, thoughts, tips, and personal stories! Do you have another Instagram page I should follow for more motivation and inspiration? Tell me here!

And in the meantime, SHOULD you be interested in getting a pair of your own weightless jeans (for under $60 bucks), you can find them here. You and your scale can thank me later.

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Global Warming is My Fault

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Global Warming is My Fault

I used to think that the worst thing I could do for my kids was let them have too much screen time. But the other day, when Oliver let 5 helium balloons “fly to the moon” without any concern, I realized my Fort Nite, Ryan’s Toys, YouTube addicted little monkeys were the least of my worries: I am raising global warming terrorists and they give zero f**s about their carbon footprints (I’m saying those words as if I even know what that means).

This past week, I was convinced that a NBC Local news van was going to show up at my house to run a breaking news report about a series of (popped) helium balloons that landed in the LA River and clogged drains, contaminated the water supply, destroyed trees, killed animals, and shut down Postmates (the biggest natural disaster if you ask me). The balloons would all be linked to my house and children due to the DNA/ sticky lollilop/goldfish fingerprint findings that showed up on the broken latex pieces.  I wouldn’t be able to deny the crime. Because credit card receipts and my son’s piggy bank where mommy desperately grabbed all lingering change to purchase said balloons, would reveal that I did indeed spend $13.56 (in one day) on 6 goddamn balloons. Apparently helium is really expensive these days you guys.

 

You see, we live a few blocks from a balloon store, which is conveniently located next to an (also overly expensive) ice cream shop. Oliver, because he’s not an idiot, has identified the stores’ proximity to our house and because I am not a clever, energetic mommy bunny, I can no longer come up with things to do in the afternoon other than walk to the ice cream store, let him eat ice cream that inevitably makes him not hungry for dinner,  walk down to the balloon store, and spend way too much money on balloons that end up in the sky. To make (global warming) matters worse, I had a $23 credit at said balloon store because I, like the forgetful mommy I play in my blog, actually didforget to pick up the $40 worth of balloons I ordered for Oliver’s party. I knew something was missing.  Anyway, because we’re at the store 675 days out of the year, the owner was kind enough to extend a credit to me.

Needless to say, when Oliver’s greatest joy in life is now buying balloons and releasing them to the universe immediately, we flew through that credit real fast.

At first, I was hesitant to let him let the balloons “go to the moon” the minute we got home. I was worried that the second they flew up, he would want them back and freak out. Which he did. But he freaked out MORE when I said we couldn’tlet them go. So I figured, fine fucker, let’s learn a lesson. I suppose he quickly learned the lesson that they weren’t coming back but instead of bursting into tears he ERUPTED IN LAUGHTER. He thought it was HILARIOUS.  The higher they went the more exciting. One, two, three, four, five balloons… within a matter of seconds GONE. “Bye byeeeeee balloons!” he laughed. “Bye byeeeee! See you later!” And his best friend/arch nemesis Everett soon found it hilarious too.

And then I remembered some video I saw on instagram of a whale (or was it a seal) being pulled ashore with balloons tied around its neck (thanks to reckless, terrible moms like me) and I felt awful. I am literally ruining the world one expensive balloon at the time.

BUT can we plus side this for a sec, people???  I’m shopping small. I’m shopping local. I’m supporting a local balloon farmer!

No seriously, isn’t that something?

Okay, fine. The squirrel in North Hollywood that probably just ate a yellow balloon for breakfast is not something to be proud about, BUT keeping a local shop in business and my 3 year old who is like a volcano waiting to erupt between the hours of EVERY SECOND AND EVERY SECOND happy is something to feel okay about.

Right now, my journey to self-love and care is all about taking wins where I can get it—even if it means contributing to the destruction of mother nature. Okay fine.That’s dramatic. I know my lazy mommy’ing isn’t going to turn our country into Gilead with polluted Colonies a la “Handmaids Tale”, but I also recognize it isn’t helping. I know that you, (the earth loving goddesses that I imagine have a foul-smellingcompost that you use to fertilize your Kombucha or Collagen Peptide plant), ARE actively doing things to SAVE our planet and don’t do simple things like flush after every pee. And neither do I! (Though that’s mostly because I forget to and happen to hate the sound of a flush. That for another post though). HOWEVER, explaining to Oliver that “if it’s yellow, we keep it mellow” is too much for him to process amidst potty training. I let him flush the potty after he pees, because A) He already pees standing and like the good man I am raising him to be, likes to wipe down the rim after he’s gone and b) I believe he deserves the satisfaction of seeing the pee go away. It’s as exciting as the balloon “going to the moon” right now. In fact, sometimes I let him do an A for Effort Flush (even if he just stands at the potty but realizes he “doesn’t have the feeling yet” because FLUSHING is PART of his Potty-training/ just give me the Skittles process so I LET HIM FLUSH THE FUCKING POTTY OKAY. And now that I’m confessing my sins, I might as well tell you about how I let Oliver let the water run while he brushes his teeth. Three times. Every night. I’m sorry, but he is just so damn excited about brushing his teeth lately and is fully willing to let me get all up in there- front, back, side etc- but on one condition: The sink has to be running. The good news is I really didn’t start enforcing teeth brushing until like, last week. So if you’re doing the math, that’s actually 3 years of water I CONSERVED. So there.

Look, I’m in survival mode right now. I know at a certain point I will have to make the switch and stop using the excuse that I “just had a baby” or that I haven’t “just moved” or haven’t “just not had time to go to the market.” But right now, I’m just getting by. And it ain’t graceful. I’m certainly not at my worst but I’m not at my best. I don’t know how else to explain it but these days, I feel like I’m in a gluten free hamster wheel with really good jewelry on.

I. JUST. CAN’T. GET. MY. SHIT. TOGETHER.

Although, I’m looking around the room right now (at the laundry that apparently has an issue living in a hamper) and I’m suddenly feeling like less of a failure…  These days Oliver is wearing Jonah’s hand-me downs,  Everett is wearing Oliver’s hand-me-downs and I’m still wearing underwear from Obama’s first term. And that folks, is what we call conservation at it’s finest.

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The Go-To: Delicious Albondigas Soup Recipe

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At Nana's house, 1981. Age 5.

At Nana’s house, 1981. Age 5.

Say hello to the most delicious Albondigas Soup Recipe… 

When I get sick, the only thing I can think about is Phil Donahue and soup.  It’s true. As a child, when I would get sick, my mom (who was a working, single parent), would take me to my Nana and Papa’s house, where I would rest and be treated like a royal queen. (It paid to be the only grandchild). On these days, I can vividly remember getting wheat thins from this ginormous pantry that always smelled like red wine vinegar, the uber 70’s wallpaper in the kitchen, watching Phil Donahue in the afternoons, and Nana making me chicken noodle soup from scratch BUT with her secret weapon: A packet of Lipton’s Chicken Noodle Soup added in. Let’s just say that some traditions have been passed down in the recipe department. (Read: You’re welcome for this).

Now as an adult, I’m the working parent and married to another equally busy human. This means when I get sick, there’s no lounging with wheat thins and watching trashy talk shows while a jewish woman attends to my every need. While I do my best to lay low and and let my own jewish forces take hold, I also still have to work and feed my family and myself! There are many local delis that make great chicken noodle soup, but in my opinion, nothing tastes better or feeds your soul more than homemade soup.

So yesterday, I mustered up the energy to make a homemade soup recipe that I got from my dear friend Ashley. Albondigas is hardly your traditional chicken noodle-cure a cold soup, but it’s incredibly delicious, packed with veggies and protein, ridiculously easy to make and since Peter and Jonah love it: It’s a new go-to!

ASHLEY’S AMAZING ALBONDIGAS SOUP

Start by chopping 1 cup of celery, 2 cups of carrots, and 1 onion diced. Do yourself a favor, especially if you’re sick, go to Trader Joes. By the already diced onion in a bag. It’s equivalent to 1 1/2 onions. So I use almost all of it and save the rest for something else later in the week.

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I have this thing that every meal needs some sort of green veggie too, so I also add 3 chopped up zucchinis. Not only do J and P love this veggie and they’re still in season, but I feel like with this soup, the give it a heartiness and make it a really well-rounded and complete meal.

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Before bringing 2 quarts of water to a boil (by the way, I use about 3 quarts), I like to sauté the veggies with a little olive oil, salt, pepper and garlic powder. The recipe also calls for 1 cup of sliced or shredded cabbage (also a wonderfully pre-packaged gem from Trader Joes). I added it to the sauté and let it cook for a few minutes until the onions were translucent.

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Meanwhile, time to get started on the meat-a-balls as Jonah calls it. You need 1 lb of ground meat. I used a lean beef this time but have used ground turkey in the past. Both are delicious. You’ll need an egg and 1 cup of cooked white rice. I had a bag of frozen jasmine rice which I used. Easy. You’ll add salt, pepper, garlic salt, and a little cayenne to the mix.

DSC_0123The size of the balls is all to your liking…

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Once your veggie soup mix is boiling, you’ll want to add 6 chicken bouillon cubes, a 28 oz can of diced tomatoes (with juice!), and if you want, 1 cup of pinto beans (without juice). I let all the ingredients boil together for another minute or two and then I add the balls. *Note, I ended up added more pepper and a dash of cayenne before I added the meatballs. The tomatoes added a lot of salt to the soup so make sure you taste and season accordingly*

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Add the balls to the boiling soup and bring to a simmer for 35-45 minutes.

DSC_0154Serve hot. If you  feel like it needs something with it, you can pop some corn tortillas in the oven to make your own chips. Or I usually just make some extra rice that they add to their soup (Jonah even puts just the meatballs and veggies on the rice without the liquid). Sometimes Jonah likes to add a little sour cream to it too to give it a creamy consistency. Me: I like it plain and perfect.

DSC_0163Enjoy! It’s even better the next day….

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Ashley’s Amazing Albondigas Soup:

  • 2 – 3 quarts of water
  • 6 beef or chicken bouillon cubes
  • 2 cups sliced carrots
  • 1 cup celery heart sliced/diced with leaves (I left leaves out)
  • 1 28 oz can of diced tomatoes w/ juice
  • 1/2 cup of dried pinto beans (or 1 cup of canned pinto beans w/o liquid)
  • 1 cup of sliced or chopped cabbage
  • 1 onion diced
  • **3 small zucchinis chopped

Meatballs:

  •  1 lb ground meat (Beef, turkey, or chicken)
  • 1 egg
  • 1 cup of cooked white rice
  • Salt & pepper
  • Garlic salt
  • Cayenne pepper

Mix together to form meatballs.

Put all ingredients into large pot and bring to a boil.** Add meatballs to boiling mixture, reduce heat to simmer and cook for 35-45mins.

**I added zucchini.

**I sautéed onions, carrots, celery, zucchini, and cabbage with olive oil, salt & pepper first before I added the water. Once water boiling, I added bouillon cubes, tomatoes and beans. Let boil for a few more minutes then add meatballs.

The post The Go-To: Delicious Albondigas Soup Recipe appeared first on Perfectly Disheveled.

Holiday Cards: What I Really Wanted to Say

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As a little girl, my dream in life was to get married and have a big family. Mission accomplished (twice, lol!) So when the holidays roll around, I’m not going to lie and pretend I dread the holiday card frenzy. I don’t! I love it. I love having a reason to hire a photographer and get pictures of us all together. I even like the process of stamping and labeling envelopes. I know, weird. But the thing is, we all know that behind these photos, children were screaming, the house is a mess, mommy is counting down the seconds until the kids go to sleep, and daddy is checking the scores on his phone, yet again. And that’s just the tame version. 

In honor of the holiday season and all things year end, I thought I’d share what our year-end holiday letter might look like if I were being totally candid and unfiltered, along with some of the pictures that ended up on the cutting room floor. In true transparent form, may I recommend reading with a glass of eggnog spiked with something stiff (fuck that morning smoothie) and last night’s leftover Chinese food?  

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Greetings from The Heilbrons!

Oh what a year it’s been!

2018 started off with a big shift in our family when we decided on New Years’ day, in fact, that we needed to get rid of our annoying dog Apple. Not only did Jenny develop horrible allergies that led to her coughing up green phlegm like the homeless man living on the embankment up the block from their home, but Apple really wasn’t as cuddly or cute as the shady dude at the adoption fair trying to pawn her off claimed she’d be. Shih-tzu Terrier Mix our ass! Oh well! After a good cry and telling us we were the worst parents in the world and he wished he could find a new home too, we promised him more iPad timeand Jonah understood our wish to find her a new home with people that knew how to walk/feed a puppy, and within a week Oliver, Apple’s only true friend in the house, forgot we even had a dog entirely. As luck would have it, a lovely woman up the block who silently judged me as I tugged Apple on our daily walks while I checked Instagram, noticed how miserable Apple was with us, and offered to find her a foster parent. Lo and Behold, the foster parent fell in love with that ugly little punim and kept her for herself! Apparently, she doesn’t mind white hair all over her furniture or a dog that looks like it escaped the Warsaw Ghetto. Anyway, the word on the street now is that her new owner changed Apple’s name to Olivia and moved them to New York!  

Speaking of things that make me think of pizza, once again Jenny committed to losing that pesky baby weight! Being the dedicated and committed person she is, Jenny is now an expert in all things keto, paleo, no sugar, I give up, low carb, low dairy, fuck this shit, smoothies only, high fat, low fat, I still have fat diets. She still has a little weight to lose but enjoys wine and wine and chocolate nightly so will continue to blame her lack of will power and control on her kids, exhaustion, Direct TV, and Trump in 2019.

Peter has had quite a crazy year too! This mother fucker ended up with another kidney stone. This time, it was so big it got obstructed and caused an infection in his kidney- He ended up having to have surgery! Jennifer was a perfect wife and stayed by his side while he was in the hospital and only told him that she would actually murder him once if he didn’t see a Urologist and change his diet after the procedure. She actually told him she’d murder him twice, but the second time was because she asked him to get up with the baby in the middle of the night but he can’t hear anything out of his left ear so he actually didn’t hear her say this… or the screaming baby. Though he’s got the insides of a 78-year old man, Peter still manages to get out on the golf course and shoot 76. Or 65. Or 100? Jenny doesn’t actually know what he hits because after he’s gone on a Saturday for 6-7 hours when it takes 4.5hours to golf, she loses interest and turns to sales on ShopBop.com to cope with her anger. Speaking of Daddy driving Mommy to shop, Peter that lucky fuck, managed to go Scotland and Ireland in August for 10 days! He missed the baby’s first birthday but thanks to technology, Jenny was able to text him lots of pictures on the big day along with a lot of sad Emojis to let him know how guilty he should feel! His trip was really marvelous and we’re so glad he got to take T E N days for himself. No one deserves it more than him.  

Moving on to le bebe. Ahhh, the baby! Everett, aka, the Forgotten Child. What a dumpling of love and poo pebbles that are impossible to wipe off his testicles. (The experts say it’s important to use proper terminology around the kids). Everett is 16 months old and really is adorable! Despite the daily blows to the head he takes from Oliver, he’s turning out to be quite the talker! The fact that he knows Elmo lives in mommy’s phone and all he has to do is scream loudly and say “Emmmo!” and she will give it to him along with a lollipop at 7am is pure brilliance. And I thought the other two were smart! Ha!

Well, Everett isn’t the only one with a knack for technology. Jonah is a Fort Nite and Call of Duty master. Nothing is more enjoyable at the end of a long day where no one knows how to shut the fuck up and leave me alone than listening to Jonah say “bro, bruh, bro, your trash, bro. Skrr. Skrr. Bro. Kill him. Bruh.”  I just love the friendships he’s making with random old men on the internet. We’re also so impressed by the way he’s been able rack up $98,712 in PlayStation and iTunes charges this year simply by wearing us down, throwing a temper tantrum and telling us we suck and how unwenfair life is.  Despite our best efforts to remind him that gratitude goes a long way and to think about the all the other children less fortunate that he is (ie. kids separated at border from their parents, kids without a home this Christmas, kids that DIE), he manages to get us to say fuck it this is the last time each and every time!! He has the real making of a boardroom executive or US President! We are beaming.

Last but certainly not least, our middle child and currently the one who we believe is responsible for our marriage counseling: Oliver! Oh this little whipper snapper stops people on the street with his big eyes, curly hair, and odd screams when they pass by. Oliver’s favorite words right now are Fuck, Jesus Christ, and Blippi. This year he made major strides when he started going pee-pee on the potty! We were so proud. Unfortunately, pooping on the potty is still a work in progress. Thanks to many trips to the gastroenterologist, we’ve determined there’s no medical problem, he’s just a willful motherfucker that  refuses to go. SO, we give him a nightly dose of Milk of Magnesia to blast that shit, literally. One day, he blasted so hard at our favorite sushi restaurant, the bathroom looked like a Jackson Pollack painting. What fun memories we’re making! When he’s not screaming with constipation pains, Oliver’s favorite activity is playing pretend restaurant and kitchen. He loves to take “orders” and follow it with “Coming riiiiight up!” His imagination is actually quite remarkable and we owe it all to a YouTube channel run by a very lovely and unintelligible Vietnamese family that makes videos on various pretend play like driving through McDonald’s and getting arrested for stealing cookies. He loooves this channel and its’ main character Uncle Jon.  Needless to say, Oliver has already discovered the world of the Happy Meal and goes to speech therapy now weekly.

We are so grateful for all the love and support you all have given us this year! We hope to see you in 2019! Just text Jenny or Peter, but mostly Peter because Jenny “forgets to hit send” on her texts back to people a lot these days. Ooops! Life is so crazy isn’t it!

Here’s to crazy and lots of holiday cheer.

Warmly,

The Heilbrons

Jenny, Peter, Jonah, Oliver, Everett and the ghost of doggies past

The post Holiday Cards: What I Really Wanted to Say appeared first on Perfectly Disheveled.

EASY WEEKNIGHT DINNERS: SLOW COOKER TERIYAKI CHICKEN

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Photo from RealSimpleGood.com

As I finally sat down to write this post last night, aka known as my favorite night of the year, Julia Roberts was walking out on stage and she looked so gorgeous, I literally gasped out loud. How ironic, I think to myself… here I am in in the middle of writing a post, sharing a recent paleo recipe I discovered and I’m drooling over both her stunning pink gown and the raspberry peanut butter cup Humphrey’s yogurt that I’m pretty sure will tip the scales (literally and figuratively) on my macros for the day (because what would my life be like if I wasn’t actually dieting at some point).

But that’s not what this post is about. Okay, well it kind of is. I mean, I didn’t INTEND for this to be a post about the 645thdiet, er, excuse me“lifestyle change” I’m trying. But since we’re being honest and you’re likely just scrolling through this part to get to the FUCKING POINT anyway, then I will tell you about the new diet du jour. It’s called Faster Way to Fat Loss. (I know, it is so Jenny Craig sounding I can’t even). BUT you know what, the befores and afters on insta have kept me up at night more than Jenny Mollen’s stories at the dermatologist or pulling out her own sutures, so that’s really saying something. I won’t go into deets about this diet, because I’m only on like day 5 and given my dieting track record, I won’t make it past day 10. But I feel like so far, it’s TOTALLY been worth the $199. (Hi, Peter. I love you.).

In a nutshell, you intermittent fast every day with an 8 hour eating window. So basically, I eat 12pm-8pm and fast 16 hours. At first I thought it was hard, but research shows

OMG WHO CARES. Even I’m boring myself. Just go on insta and search #fwtfl or follow @Seersuckerandsaddles and @somewherelately and you can see what my new crazy/time suck sitch is all about.

Wait, what was I talking about? Oh yes… THE RECIPE FOR PALEO CROCK POT CHICKEN TERIYAKI. So regardless of whatever diet I’m doing, if you follow me on Instagram, or happen to be an irl human that I know, then YOU KNOW I  do like to cook and am always searching for a new weeknight meal. I’m so over my usuals and was excited when I simply googled “Crockpot” Paleo Chicken Teriyaki and got this one.

I’m not even going to pretend that I know how this person came up with it or walk you through the steps (unless you want to know how to drink Rose while you cook at the same time. That I can do). But I will just say this: The recipe calls for chicken thigh, I used CHICKEN BREAST. I also “zsjuzshed” it a bit as measurements because their recipe calls for 2lbs and I had about 3.25… so I added another 1 or 2 dates, another ¼ c of coconut aminos, and a bit more of everything else. I also used arrowroot powder instead of tapioca starch at the end to thicken the sauce. Oh, and most importantly, I cooked in the crockpot for 5 hours on low. Next time I would do 4 hours on low. That would have been enough and made it a tad less dry.

All in all though, this was a HUGE success. EVERYONE loved it.

Tomorrow, I’m going to give this recipe a try. Will let you know how it goes. In the meantime, I have to go break my fast. And by break my fast, break the internet as fast as I can googling “Julia Roberts diet.”

Photo from RealSimpleGood.com

SLOW COOKER TERIYAKI CHICKEN: PALEO & WHOLE 30 APPROVED

Ingredients

2 lbs boneless chicken thighs**(Remember, I used breasts)

For the teriyaki sauce:

  • 3/4 cup coconut aminos
  • 4 pitted dates, soaked for 10-15 minutes in warm water to soften then drained
  • 3 tbsp apple cider vinegar
  • 2 tsp fresh ginger grated on a microplane
  • 2 tsp garlic powder

For serving:

  • White or cauli rice (cauli rice for Whole30)
  • Mixed greens
  • Sesame seeds
  • Green onion diced

Optional (to thicken sauce):

Instructions

For the slow cooker:

  • Place all of the sauce ingredients in a blender or food processor and run continuously to combine all the ingredients until smooth. Stop to scrape sides down as needed and restart.
  • Place chicken thighs in the slow cooker and pour the teriyaki sauce over the chicken.
  • Cover and cook on low for 6 hours or on high for 3 hours.

For the Instant Pot:

  • Make teriyaki sauce as noted above.
  • Place chicken thighs in the Instant Pot and pour the teriyaki sauce over the chicken.
  • Secure the lid on the instant pot and close the pressure valve. Press the “manual” button (or “pressure cook” button) and set the time to cook for 20 minutes at high pressure. Once the time is up, quick release the pressure.
  • While the chicken is cooking, prepare cauli or white rice for serving.
  • Once the chicken is finished cooking, shred it with 2 forks inside the slow cooker or Instant Pot. Mix the shredded chicken with the cooking juices. Spoon some of the remaining teriyaki sauce over the chicken when serving.
  • Serve and sprinkle with chopped green onions and sesame seeds.

Optional (to thicken sauce):

  • If you want a thicker teriyaki sauce for serving perform the following steps after shredding the chicken.
  • Remove shredded chicken from the crockpot or instant pot with a slotted spoon. Pour remaining sauce into a small saucepan.
  • Mix tapioca starch into the water until it dissolves. Pour this into the saucepan and mix.
  • Heat on medium-high until it just begins to bubble, then turn down and simmer for about 5 minutes, stirring frequently.

Spoon sauce over chicken for serving.

Photo of my actual dinner below 🙂

The post EASY WEEKNIGHT DINNERS: SLOW COOKER TERIYAKI CHICKEN appeared first on Perfectly Disheveled.

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