So I don’t wear yoga pants and I’m loud: Be my friend Mothers!

I don’t wear yoga pants unless I am at the gym.

I arrive at my daughter’s early morning dance class in makeup and “clothes” that aren’t yoga pants or sweat-suits.

I might be totally cool with my daughter being loud in public sometimes also.

I might also join her.

That might have been me, singing broadway in a Target store, but I will never tell.

I might not love cooking, and I might just find all of reality television to be the death of me, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be my friend, mothers.

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You’re so Pretty: what we say to girls

I have a daughter, in case you’ve never read my blogs before. She’s almost 3, and absolutely adorable. Sure, I am biased, but according to audiences aged 5 and up, she gets a resounding “cute” vote.

And hey, there’s nothing that pumps my small ego more than the words, “You look beautiful today,” but in fact, that’s most of the problem or all of the problem.

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Vanilla or Chocolate? The case for being kinkier, especially if you’re married


See this chocolate ice cream? Doesn’t it look delicious? Don’t you want to run out right now, and buy some? Don’t you want to rip the spoon off the screen, and dig in?

Now, imagine looking at this same bowl of ice cream every day, for years.

Would you still have the same voracious appetite for said ice cream?

You might still want to eat it, and you’d probably still lick the bowl, but don’t you think eating the same treat each night is a little dull?

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One snobby mom begets another…snobby kid

I really cannot stand snobbery. Even if I eventually don’t like a person, I am most often always nice to a person initially. There’s no need to assume you are better than someone, and if you think you are, chances are, you definitely aren’t.

But what really pushes my easily-aroused buttons, are moms who are snotty little biotches. When you take your kid to a public playgroup or storytime, chances are you should expect other people to talk to you and your kid. Well, apparently this princess didn’t. Continue reading

‘Cause I’m a Blonde: Bubbly & Blonde does not equal dumb

I smile a lot. I even wear pink and red. Okay, I lied. I wear LOTS of pink and red. I might have even had pink hair at one time. I do own a pair of hot pink converse. I do like matching toe and nail polish. I absolutely detest lint on clothing, beading material on sweaters, being seen in sweats when it’s not at my home, the gym, or the doctor’s office, and grouchy people.

I might even giggle loudly.

I even smile and sometimes say hello to strangers. I’m nice to everyone: from the person who makes my tea to the dude who takes out the garbage, I’m nice.

And look: do you see? Continue reading

When to Talk to Your Kids About Slavery, War, & Other Horrific Acts of Humanity

Today at storytime, the reader pulled out an interesting book.

To back up, this storytime consisted of kids aged 1 years to 7 years old. There is no age restriction, but the majority of the children were between 2-4. It was quite a young audience, so I was surprised to see what the reader chose.

Henry’s Freedom Box, by Ellen Levine is an excellent book that talks about slavery. If you look at’s recommended reading age, you will see it says grades 3-5.

So imagine my (and the other parents’ surprised faces) as the reader began to read a story about a family being sold off as slaves.

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Tell Me a Story Mommy: Take One More Moment for Parenthood

Whenever my daughter gets on the potty, she wants to hear a story. Most often, she doesn’t even want to go on the potty, but wants to hear you recount story after story…after story.

Don’t get lazy and skip details.

Don’t forget to add dramatic emphasis.

Don’t you dare try to move the story ahead quickly.

You will be met with a stern look, and a complaint or fifty.

As she tries to filibuster and avoid the task at hand, I try to shove off the stories at times, and rush her along.

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Fathers: Say no to your daughters


I recognize that me saying this will probably do nothing to change the world, or change fatherhood. I recognize that as the owner of a vagina, I am powerless to what men do, unless I punch them hard. And that would mean breaking a nail…so nevermind.

As I move on, I implore Dads everywhere to hear my cry! The cry of a mother. Of an ex-teacher.

Daddy’s little girl is the saying. Nothing will change that bond or feeling. And a father is pivotal to a little girl’s self-esteem. A father’s love and respect for the women and girls around him is crucial for a daughter to see. But that’s not what I am talking about.

Men. Dads. Ahem.


We need you to grow some balls.

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