Uptown Funk, or how to offend an entire Trader Joe’s

My daughter is four.  She loves to sing.  Loudly.  She doesn’t always get the words right.  Her favorite song, currently, is “Uptown Funk.”  You know this one, right?

In case you don’t have an affinity for popular music, here.

The part of the song that my daughter really, REALLY loves to sing out loud is: “Uptown funk you up!  Uptown funk you up!”  Imagine how these lyrics translate into a four-year-old’s language.  Ready?


Yes.  Yup.  In the middle of a very crowded Trader Joe’s, Kerry Anne decided to sing her favorite song.  But just that part.  About six times in a row.  Or, enough times to have at least ten people wondering what kind of mother allows her child to speak in such a way and should they call CPS?

I tried to play it off.  As my face, and probably entire body, flamed up, I laughed nervously and said “That’s not what she’s saying.  It’s a song.  But it’s not those words.  It’s by Mark Ronson, well, but Bruno Mars actually sings it, it’s on the radio all the time BUT NOT THOSE WORDS.  She’s four.  That’s not what she’s saying.”

Several people stared at me, and her, and back at me.  They shook their heads.  A little old lady actually “tsk tsk’d” me.  And that was my breaking point.  My baby is SANGIN!  She loves this song.  She’s getting the words wrong?  What-fucking-ever.

“Sing out, Louise!”

I’ll fix you a cocktail if you get that reference.



Preschool Poor, and The New American Dream

You know what “house poor” is, right?  That’s when a person spends more than a proportionate amount of their income on the home, which usually leaves them strapped for cash for other bills, and you know, life.

Well, I’m not house poor.  I’m preschool poor.

The amount I spend on my daughter’s preschool education is almost as much as I pay for my monthly mortgage.  It’s not even a fancy, rich people preschool.  It IS a Montessori school, but when I compared the rates between her school and several other non-Montessori schools, it was basically the same.

Which leads me to believe: being able to afford preschool is the New American Dream.  Being able to afford a trip to Disneyland is also the New American Dream.  Being able to afford a full tank of gas AND a full cart of groceries is the New American Dream.  Paying all of your utility bills at the same time is the New American Dream.

The New American Dream is pretty depressing.


Lightning. Wishing stars. Whatever.

The other night, The Boss and I were driving home from my parents’ house.  There were several streaks of lightning flashing all over the sky and it was pretty awesome.

“Look, baby!  Did you see that lightning?  Isn’t that awesome?” said I.

“It’s not ly-ning, Mommy.  It’s a wishing star,” replied she.

“It does kind of look like wishing stars, but it’s actually lightning.  Because, you know, it’s raining.”

HUGE sigh from the backseat.  “Mommy.  It’s a wishing star.  It’s not ly-ning.  Do you understand me?  IT’S A WISHING STAR.”

“Well, okay.  I’m not going to argue with you.  If you say it’s a wishing star, then fine.”

And, you guys, I didn’t know what it was that I said or what the tone was, but something in that last statement just made her lose her ever-loving mind.

“MOMMY!  You are not listening to me and it’s making me angry!  Why don’t you listen to me when I am saying an important thing?  You are hurting my feelings!  Now I’m sad!  You need to say ‘sorry’ right now!  MOMMY!  Do you hear me?”

Frankly, I didn’t feel safe making any further comment to her, so I just kept my mouth shut.  Don’t engage, right?  This was not a wise decision on my part.  The diatribe continued the entire 10 minute drive to our house (reason # 76,379 why I’m glad I bought a home really close to my parents).  She didn’t let up.  I’m not sure she even paused long enough to take a breath (reason # 482 why I think she might actually be an alien lifeform).

Finally, we pulled up to our house and I turned off the car.  I turned around to look at her; a tiny little human with her arms crossed and her lower lip jutted out.

“Baby, I’m sorry that your feelings got hurt.  Can you tell me what I said that made you feel sad and angry?”

And I saw it on her face: she didn’t know.  She had no idea why she was so upset over my saying it was lightning.  But I knew, right at that moment.  It was a Mommy Epiphany.

She BELIEVED the lightning was truly wishing stars.  And she LOVES wishing stars; she loves anything to do with making wishes.  When I said “it’s actually lightning,” her four-year-old brain heard “You are wrong.  What you believe in is wrong.  What you love is wrong.”

No wonder she got mad.  I get mad when someone tells me that what I love and believe in are wrong.

We got out of the car and sat on the porch, watching the lightning/wishing stars and made our wishes.  I said my wishes aloud and she asked if they would come true then, because you aren’t supposed to say your wishes out loud.

“Well sugar, I think that when the wish is really important, it’s okay to say it out loud to someone you really love.  What do you think?”  She nodded and whispered her wishes.

(At the time, it was really sweet and sentimental, but reading it now, I’m like “Dude, get out of the Disney movie.”  Whatever.  I think I scored big Mommy Points.)


How To Cuddle – A Manual

My 4-year-old daughter, aka The Boss of Everyone, recently schooled me in the art of cuddling.

Now, I’m 38 years old.  I’ve done a fair amount of cuddling during my years on Earth.  Plus, I’ve been cuddling this particular person since the night she was removed from my womb.  You’d think I’d have it down to a science, wouldn’t you?

Well, you would be wrong.  The Boss said so.

At approximately 10:15 on a Saturday night, my lessons began.  I was almost asleep, adrift in that blissful haze that creeps over me when the melatonin kicks in.  The Boss was curled up next to me, in my bed (because she’s The Boss and she does what she wants, obviously), when suddenly her little crazy-haired head appeared directly in front of my face.

“Mommy.  Mommy.  Mom-MY.  I need to tell you something.  It’s very important.  MOMMY!”

“What.  Go to sleep.  It’s late.”

“You are not cuddling me right.  I don’t like where your arm is.  You need to fix it.”

I swear to God, it took everything I had to stop myself from saying: “Are you fucking for real?”  But I didn’t.  And I awarded myself Mommy Points for that.  She continued:

“You need to put your arm across my back.  But not there.  Over.  No, down.  No, I mean up.  Put your hand around my belly.  No, Mommy!  That tickles.  Oh Mommy, you’re such a silly goose.  Move my pillow over.  Don’t lay on my pillow.  Mommy.  You’re breathing on me.  Okay.  Good job, Mommy!  Now it’s perfect.”

And she fell right to sleep.  I, of course, was completely uncomfortable and lay mostly awake for the next few hours.  Why didn’t I move once she was asleep?  Come on.  You know better.  Don’t be daft.  If I moved, or even took a deep breath, she would stir and mumble “Stop moving, Mommy.  Don’t wake me up.”

Wanna hear my “silver lining” for this batshit crazy dictatorship in which I live?  SHE KNOWS WHAT SHE WANTS.  And she’s not shy about asking for it.  Yes!  I’m a good mother and I’m raising a strong girl!


My mother doesn’t like it when I swear (on Facebook).

My mother gives me a lot of shit when I swear, but only when I swear on Facebook.  People I don’t know, nor have ever met or really care much about, “might see it.”


“There are so many other words you could use instead.” – Mom

True, there are a lot of words I know, and I do use them regularly.  But sometimes, “fuck” is the only thing that will suffice.  Opening the pantry door to discover a large scorpion?  “Oh, dear me!” will not cut it.  “Oh, holy fucking shit balls!” is what that situation calls for.  Am I right?

Mom and I were sitting around her patio table last night, with my youngest brother, my auntie (Mom’s sister), one of my best friends and her husband, and my mom was divvying up swats between my brother and me as we used “colorful” words in our usual banter.  My auntie brought up my recent ban of My Little Pony in my home (Sassypants was beyond distraught; more on that later) and mentioned the acronym I had used for the show recently (on Facebook, of course.):  MLMfCsP.

“What does that stand for?” asked my adorably conservative mother.

My auntie started laughing before I even opened my mouth.  “It stands for My Little Motherfucking Cocksucking Pony,” I told her.

Swat!  Gasp!  “You said that on Facebook?!?  That is embarrassing!  I’ve never said that word.”

Back up, Mother Dear.  You SO have said it and I recall the exact details of when and where.  This frazzled mind of mine holds a shit ton of memories and you don’t stand a chance.

“Yes, you have.  We were in your car, when you still drove the Highlander, turning left on Stephanie from Sunset.  You were upset with (shall remain nameless) and you called (shall remain nameless) a cocksucker.”

My mother, who really is the most adorable little lady on Earth, shrugged and said “Oh.  Well, it doesn’t really count if you’re in the car.”

So there you have it.  You may swear to your heart’s content, with my mother’s blessing, but ONLY IF YOU ARE IN THE CAR.


*Note: my daughter was not around for any of the above-mentioned interchange.  I honestly try to refrain from swearing around her and other children.  Modeling behavior and all that jazz.

Oh look. Another Mommy blog.

This is probably the 86,345,956th mommy blog online.  Just what the internets need, right?

Shut up.

I don’t say “shut up” to my daughter, though I often want to.  You see, I practice “modeling behavior” so that she can learn how to act like a good human.  What I really want to say, most of the time, is “shut the fuck up!”  But this is not acceptable behavior among the preschool set, so I do not hit the parenting runway with a potty mouth.

My daughter is four years old.  She believes that she is The Boss Of Everyone, but especially of me.  She makes me laugh and she also makes me a little insane.  Every day is an adventure with this child, and more often than not, I need a drink at the end of the day.

Welcome to my life.