(As in: everything makes you want to, and your kids do nothing but)

Category Archives: Family life

My husband and I are drowning.

We’re being sucked under by a tidal wave of sick kids, pummeled by a tsunami of fake tears.

It’s a rip current of bad attitudes, wave upon wave of time-outs.

There are unexplainable belly aches.

belly ache

Cold weather crankiness.

cold weather cranky

Ear aches.

ear ache

Rainy days trapped indoors.

stuck indoors

Not to mention traffic jams caused by overturned trucks carrying baby formula and dogs with mysteriously enlarged spleens.

trafficsick frankie

This past weekend, we tried to make the best of what is becoming a bad life situation.

We took the kids to the horse track. (Trust me, it’s not about gambling. We look at horseys and pick our favorite. Alma always chooses the one with the pink number.)

There are no pictures, because I was too busy giving my kids a perpetual verbal beat down to snap a photo.

On the way there, my son keeps dropping stuff on the floor of the car and whining for me to pick it up.

My daughter whines that she wants her window rolled down. I have those old-timey hand-cranked windows, so I tell her no.

She says, “I can do it with my foot!” I say, “No, don’t roll the window down with your foot.” Seconds later, I can feel my hair start to whip around because… she… rolled it down with her foot.

My husband says, “That’s it, Alma. Time-out whenever we get back home.”

She responds snarkily, “5 minute time-out.”

My husband, “That just earned you 10.”

At the track, she whines that she wants to sit on the benches outside instead of indoors. (Even though it looks as though it might rain.)

She whines that she wants to go in the bouncy houses. (The ones that are surrounded by a moat of mud.)

My son whines that he wants juice, not lemonade.

He whines that he wants a different hot dog. (What the hell does that even mean? All hot dogs are created equal.)

He starts whacking his auditorium seat up and down, then standing on it.

She knocks over my water.

Huck gets angry at me for telling me he’s also getting time-out and smacks my arm.

This is when I threaten to smack him in the face. Loud enough for other people to hear. That is also when I start to cry silently.

I mean, I’m never gonna smack my kid in the face. I’ve never even popped him on the bum.

I am humiliated.

I feel ashamed.

I feel guilty.

I feel like the world’s worst parent and… I feel like drinking A LOT. (Which would ALSO make me feel like a bad parent.)

We ended up cutting the whole thing short and going home angry.

Both kids got time-outs so epic, they both took naps.

I took a nap too.

They woke up feeling rejuvenated.

I woke up feeling ill-prepared to handle another 4 hours with them before bedtime.

That evening proved to be everything I anticipated and MORE.

Frankie is on medication for his chunky spleen or injured spine or whatever they charged us $1,000 for and it causes excessive urination. So, it wasn’t a huge surprise when Alma pointed out the slow-moving puddle of dog piss in the kitchen. I was surprised by the sheer enormity of said puddle. It had to be about a gallon.

I was nearly done sopping it up when I ran out of paper towels.

It’s around the same time that Alma slips and falls while chasing her brother.

She’s scream-crying, her absolute favorite.

I tell them to stop running around.

I’m mopping up the rest of the dog pee with Santa Clause napkins when Huck slips and falls flat on his face. He has a bloody nose and is shrieking. I cradle him on my lap as he yells into my face.

At some point, it almost sounds like he’s trying to make words, but I can’t understand him through the screaming.

It turns out he was saying, “I have to go potty.”

It was too late.

He peed on my lap.

It made it to my undies.

There’s no way in hell I’m cooking after that. So, I rush to Target to get some Chicken nuggets and potato fries.

Huck takes one bite of one nugget and says, “I’m done.” (par for the course) He spends the rest of dinner smashing his food and getting intermittent time-outs.

Clearly, time-out is not working.

We have also removed almost all toys from their rooms. Next would be, what? Furniture? In a month, my kids will be living like orphans in the suburbs.

This is why it takes a village.

Mommy and Daddy are going to lose their ability to cope if they don’t get a goddamned date night.

But, my mom lives far away. His mom is recovering from surgery. My dad and his wife were booked this past weekend visiting my brother. (And frankly, they’re probably overwhelmed by the crush of grandchildren at this point.)

I had a friend invite us to hang out this past weekend with him, his daughter and his wife, even with our kids in tow.

How do I explain that it’s not possible because my children will suck every drop of fun out of whatever we do?

And how do I do that while still conveying just how much I adore my children?

I love them so much, so much that weekends like this past one just break my heart. Feel me?

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There was a girl who had grown increasingly disenchanted with love.

She was worn thin by the lies, the secret Facebook pages and popped collars.

She was exhausted by the perpetual showering of cheap ‘I love you’s’, the mind-boggling pro’s and cons lists and the overlooking of flaws.

In her sad state, she fled hedonistic, superficial Miami to Tampa with high hopes of finding new meaning in life.

There was a man in the new city, lured by her song, A Sunday Kind of Love.

Their eyes met, or his met her profile picture, her tush squeezed into tight capris.

He made the not-so-bold move and wrote the girl a message. It was no love letter, but it was articulate, humorous and a breath of fresh air.

She was already dating someone else, a “Go Gators” kind of guy, but the “conversations” with this mysterious man were too compelling to ignore.

When they finally met, she saw him across the patio of a crowded restaurant. The jazz music played as she spotted him, looking cool and serious. A Cuban James Dean with nothing to lose.

There was some awkward conversation, mostly carried by her as he stared disinterested at the bar behind her.

She thought the date was over when he turned to her and said, “I thought you said you were going to drag me to some dirty blues bar?”

She grabbed his arm and smiled and they rushed to the bar where the thrill grew and the fun began.

He tried to give her a fist bump and she had flash backs to jocks past. She said she’d rather be spanked as a salutation, so he did.

As they closed down the bar, they ended up having a chat with the dirty blues band singer, his Captain Ahab beard catching the ash from his cigarette.

The Captain said unsolicited, “You guys are gonna make cute babies.”

The mysterious man performed an impromptu Judo throw on the girl as she walked to her car and they kissed.

It was brief, but the spark was there.

As he drove off in the opposite direction, the girl felt the rush of excitement, the feeling of knowing, the visions of a future all laid out like a dream come true.

She saw herself living in his loft in Ybor, nights spent cooking together, drowsy mornings cuddling in the dappled sunlight.

ybor loft

Once that became a reality, it wasn’t long before she saw the wedding, their 1920’s bungalow and a baby.

wedding

Before she could hardly realize what had happened, she was married to the man who spanked her on a first date and they were raising two very cute babies together in yet another home in the suburbs.

It hasn’t always been easy. Those cute babies can be demons. Work paired with infants can be a major impediment to romance.

alma and huck

But, she still sometimes has to pinch herself when she realizes she has married that mysterious man, who can still surprise her with his wit.

Now, there are day care date nights, sneaking “quality time” in before commandeering the jukebox at the bar and catching up over dinner and sometimes… sometimes, they still laugh so hard in bed at night their cheeks hurt and fall asleep soundly with the heat of their bodies to keep each other warm.

rolando and I


Here’s my riddle. I am in desperate need of something that flies without wings.

There’s a fine line between having a life that’s moderately difficult and a life that’s nearly unbearable.

The former can be greeted with an acerbic sense of humor. The latter cannot be greeted with anything other than a veritable sledgehammer of curse words, an inordinate amount of alcohol and a river of tears.

Lately, I have found it increasingly challenging to manage my life with shrugs, snickers and snarky comments.

I’ve read articles recently about the curse of having a “Threenager.”

fournager

I have a Fournager. See? It’s not even funny because there is no word for a child who has gone from being willful to unmanageable and is also four.

I am bombarded with comments about how her stubbornness and crappy attitude will someday allow her to become a powerful, confident woman. It is of little comfort when I am currently tossing her “powerful” butt in time-outs all day long, every bedtime is a battle of wills and we’ve been forced to swear off all public outings.

alma and huck

Don’t get me wrong, she still melts my heart by telling me I’m her best friend and randomly cuddling up to say, “I like you, mommy.”

But, lately, she’s destroying my life.

I can’t take a bath without the sound of her shrieking upon getting another time-out.

I can’t make it through dinner without her playing with her spoon, flicking her food to the dogs and shouting “Huck touched me!”

I can’t take the kids somewhere fun without her demanding a toy. Since when did it become a requirement to have a commemorative purchase when you go to a Jump Zone?

Huck is not absolved of all guilt.

The other day I heard them arguing about “who won” in the race to get upstairs. (They both say they won no matter who gets to the top first and then fight about it.) Moments later, I heard the loud smack of Huck’s hand across Alma’s face.

Even when he’s not pummeling her, she’s fake crying over something he did.

unicorn

We refer to this as a “unicorn.” A magical, fleeting moment where they were playing without fighting.

When he finds out I’m not the one putting him to bed at night, he slaps the air and grunts. If I am in close enough proximity, he slaps me too. Another time-out! Yay!

huck pouting

I am sure every parent has been there at some point, but it feels like the kids are conspiring against us right now.

They’re determined to suck the joy out of every single moment of the day and let me tell you, my days suck pretty hard long before I get home in the evening.

Not to mention all the fun times involved with cool stuff like earaches.

huck earache

I have tried so many different methods of discipline and parenting (Without spanking, can’t bring myself to get there yet.) to no avail.

The only explanation I can come up with is that they have so little respect for us because we’re… just… not… there.

We’re paying a hodgepodge of day care workers to raise our kids for pretty much the entire day, five days a week.

I can only wonder if I would find better ways to get them to behave if I was actually able to monitor their behavior, their food and their naps every day.

Maybe they’re tired.

Maybe they’re eating too much sugary crap at school.

Maybe they’re harassed all day by whiny brats and no one is there to intervene, so they become whiny little brats when they get home.

Maybe they just don’t respect us because we’re just not there.

It’s a long shot, but Lord knows, I don’t blame the kids. If children behave badly, it’s invariably the parent’s fault, right?

So, now on top of the misery of long commutes and long days at work and long and repeated time-outs, I am wracked with the guilt of feeling like a failure as a parent.

So, if anybody wonders why lately I’m not a font of hysterical anecdotes and amusing quips about my adorable family, that’s why.

adorable kids

I need… more… time.


The real story behind the sweet pictures of our Sunday trip to the zoo.

(Worth noting: My son was sick the night before and we were up with him every hour until he woke up for good at 4 a.m.)

Things started off remarkably well.

The first animal we saw was some kind of warty hog that had buried himself under a pile of hay with only his rotund rump exposed. Despite this, my daughter shouted with glee, “This place is fun!”

kids entrance

We dodged dive bombing parrots inside the aviary.

We saw white rhinos, including the enormous lumbering bull that my daughter was determined to call the “mommy rhino” despite some obvious danglage of dude parts.

Both kids were amped inside the exhibit I call “Snakes and bugs and stuff.”

kids komodo

We made our way through the shrimpy funk at the stingray tank and got splashed by mungy water during a feeding.

Then, Alma made her first demand for a toy.

Here we go.

I tell her she has enough toys at home.

She says she wants a different toy.

I say she should start to learn to enjoy the experience of being somewhere fun without taking home a token toy.

Her attitude shifts and the next thing I know she takes a swat at my husband with her bunny.

I take her bunny away and tell her she has to apologize for hitting him with it and she bursts into tears.

She’s crying hysterically while we walk past the flamingos and coy pond.

People are staring, but I am not backing down.

Eventually, she apologizes and we recover on the carousel.

carousel

Afterward, Huck wants to go on the tiger train rollercoaster and we’re pumped when we see that he’s over the required height.

Alma and I stand by to take pictures while the boys wait in line and then I see them come back out of the line.

Huck is crying.

They’ve told him he has to be 3. My husband told them he turns 3 next month and they still turned him away.

We try to appease Huck with a watermelon icee and he’s NOT HAVING IT. He’s grunting like a gorilla and swatting the air.

“Do you want to go to the petting zoo?” “Do you want to see more animals?” “Are you hungry?” “Do you need medicine?”

With every question, he does an angry Michael Jackson moonwalk away from me.

moonwalk

I finally get him to calm down enough to take a spoonful of the melted icee and he promptly gets brain freeze and spews it across the ground outside the penguin exhibit and starts screaming.

Moments later, Alma starts choking on her icee. This is just SO MUCH FUN.

Later, we’re standing in line waiting for the “train” (hoping to make Huck feel better) that takes you around the zoo for a brief and underwhelming tour. The kids are eating Doritos, which means mostly just dumping them along the walkway and stomping them into tiny pieces.

Of course while we’re waiting in line, they notify us one of the trams is shut down so it’s a longer wait than usual. (Now, 20 minutes) Then, the speaker system breaks on the working tram while we’re in line and it’s another 20 minutes.

Alma yells, “Mommy, Huck pushed me!” Huck says, “I said I was sorry.” Then he hugs her.

I overhear people standing nearby saying, “Awww” and “There’s still good parents out there.”

There it is. The balance between cracking the whip and showing the kids a good time.

“Here’s a fantastic day where you don’t have to do anything but have a good time. We provide the snacks, juice, icees, rides and carry your crap around. We wipe your bums, bring changes of clothes and spend a gazillion dollars all so you can have a blast.”

They behave badly and we give time outs, take their stuff away and trouble shoot.

People see them throwing a massive temper tantrum and probably think, “crappy parents.”

People see them hugging and apologizing and think, “good parents.

The fact is, we’re good parents BECAUSE we don’t buy into their temper tantrums.

Alma never got a toy. She got to keep the zoo map.

alma pouts bunny

We did not try to smuggle Huck onto the kiddie rollercoaster. (Although it was tempting) He got the tram ride where he kept saying, “There’s no animals. There’s trees.” (An astute observation)

We’re trying so hard, but it’s a battle and one that doesn’t usually end with pleasant memories and grateful children.

As we walk back to the car, Alma is pouting because she didn’t get a toy.

Huck whines, “Where’s MY map?”

Then he crashes, drooling on the car seat.

We were hoping to go out to lunch. Instead, it’s McD’s and buying groceries and consoling Huck when he wakes up and tossing out the kids uneaten peas and watching Batman and breaking up fights over legos and “Don’t hit your sister!” and “Stop crying over everything!” and yes, that’s moonshine in my Coke.

There were good moments at the zoo: Alma in heaven on her horse, Huck mesmerized by otters, the moment when Alma randomly started patting Huck sweetly on the head.

otters

Was it worth it?

Ask me when the kids are in their 20’s and we find out if they even remember this stuff.


Working in news, you have to be detached, even jaded.

You must be bitter, hardened and borderline soulless.

People cope by making dead baby jokes and cracks about crackheads.

I am just as guilty as the next guy.

But, there are days when the stories we cover feel absolutely unbearable. The weight of cruelty crushes your spirit. The injustices, the death of innocence piles up and blinds you to the good in the world.

Today was one of those days.

An unthinkable crime. A father clutches his 5-year old daughter to his chest, lifts her up, then throws her off a 60-foot high bridge into the frigid water to her death.

JONCHUCKNEW

I first read the headline when I woke up at 5:30 a.m.

It was easily shoved into the back of my brain as I worked out, showered, got dressed and drove to work.

Then, I arrived at work and had no choice but to listen to the coverage of the story. I could feel the tears begin to well up.

Then, I see the first pictures of the little girl. Her name is Phoebe and she’s a cherubic little blonde.

phoebe 1

Then, I hear the owner of the daycare she attended talking about how she was terrified of water.

Now, I can’t STOP crying.

The terror she must have felt. Did she survive the fall? Did she struggle to swim? What went through her mind when she realized her own father had just sealed her fate?

MAKE IT STOP.

I could say this makes me want to rush home and hold my children. It does, but it doesn’t make up for the gnawing sorrow in the pit of my stomach, the grieving for a child I’ve never met.

The worst thing I’ve ever had the urge to do to my own children is drop an F-bomb in front of them.

This is unfathomable.

I did see a wonderful post on Facebook where a man similarly darkened by the cloud of gloom suggested everyone use it as an opportunity to post one thing they love about their child.

dark cloud

Just one? Impossible!

I love that my son randomly pets my arm while we sit together on the couch, then looks at me out of the corner of his eye and smiles so I will know that it’s no accident.

I love that my daughter asks every night if it’s my turn to put her to bed and when it is she shouts “Yesss!” and runs to hug me.

I love that my son really believes that if he wears Batman pajamas that he IS Batman.

huck batman2

I love that my daughter demands we call her “Flash.”

alma runner

I love that my daughter wants to cook me with every night and when that’s actually a realistic option, she squeezes my legs and says, “I love you, mommy.”

alma cooks

I love that my son comes to his sister’s defense when we say she’s being naughty. “Alma’s not bad. Alma’s good!” (Even when she was in trouble for hitting him.)

sibling love

I love that my daughter asks me if I’m “okay” when I lose at a game.

I love that my son doesn’t just give you a half-assed hug when you ask for one. They’re long and warm and heartfelt.

huck hug

I love that my daughter is under the impression she can run incredibly fast when in reality it’s more of an awkward sprint.

I love that my son can’t sit still for more than a few minutes before asking, “Wanna play ball?” or “Want punching time?”

I love that my daughter asks a million annoying questions and when you finally give her a real and complicated answer, her eyes get big like her mind just got BLOWN.

alma mind blown

I love that when she asks my son for a turn politely, he hands over whatever is, no matter what it is and without argument.

alma and huck love

I could go on forever… and now I feel, only slightly better about the world, but fantastic about MY world.

dark cloud sun


I get it, you love to run and you’re killing it every day in preparation for some ridiculously pointless marathon when we all know the real satisfaction you get is from having enviable legs.

running

I get it, Crossfit has changed your life and you now firmly believe that if everyone did it, they would all be similarly transformed.

crossfit

I get it, you only eat meat and your diet makes you strong like bull.

paleo

I get it, you only eat veggies and secretly wish to lynch bacon-lovers and throttle those who think Vegan is a newly-discovered planet.

vegan

I get it, you don’t really want anyone to know exactly what you’re talking about, but feel compelled to get something off your chest, so you opt for irritating ambiguity, your posts so obscure nobody knows whether it’s actually time to orchestrate an intervention.

vague

We are all to some extent guilty.

I happen to inundate fellow users with pictures of my children. My children being cute, being annoying, being funny, just being.

the kids

If they turned out blurry, I just photoshop the shit out of them.

huck blurry

If the first 13 pictures didn’t turn out, I keep taking pictures until I arrive at the winner.

alma cute

If I happen upon another adorable moment to capture, I am a-gonna post it even if it comes just several minutes after my previous post of my adorable, sweet little spawn.

So, do you get it? I love my kids. Get it?

It’s so strange how much social media has dramatically altered our interaction with acquaintances. I say “acquaintances” because even though I know every single person on my “friends list”, I have probably only seen 10 of them in person in a social setting in the past year. (Oh, those are all family members.)

In the year 2005, I wouldn’t have been caught dead sharing the mundane details of my everyday life with people in casual conversation.

I would never have randomly mentioned that my year has been a complete cluster one week in.

I would never have walked up to someone every few hours to say, “Look at how awesomely cute my kid is” or “I ran X amount of miles this morning” or “Ugh, can’t believe it’s happened again. No, I won’t tell you what I’m referring to. I’ve mastered the art of the compelling tease with no reward.”

Now, we’re all guilty of oversharing and we come with plethora of justifications.

“I share all the pictures of my kids for my relatives who don’t live nearby.”

“I’m just trying to keep myself motivated.”

“I’m bored.”

So many people suggest putting down the smartphone, getting off the ipad and actually interacting with people. Well, I’m a hardcore introvert. I’ve never been one to suggest an outing with pals and now that I have children, I run from social interaction like it’s a flesh-starved zombie.

zombie attack

“Wait, you just wanted to… talk?”

I could sit around and read your posts and feel outraged that running gives me shin splints. I could feel guilty about the bacon I had with breakfast or the massive pile of Thai for lunch with all it’s Gluteny, gluttonous goodness.

I could even internally debate whether to ask you what your post ACTUALLY means while seething in frustration for several minutes.

But, I’m not going to hide you from my feed.

Because I get it. I get it and you’re gonna keep on getting it too, cause my kids are my world.

They provide me with the sweetest, most joyful moments of my day and then turn around and suck the sleep out of my nights and destroy me with their asshole antics.

huck handscrazy kids

By all means, keep shoving whatever “your shit” is down my throat.

In return, I give you… my edited life in snippets and snapshots. Enjoy.

huck sweet


Lately, I can be seen shuffling around like a homeless schizophrenic, mumbling to myself over and over, “It’s just a phase. It’s just a phase.”

For the past few weeks, my daughter has transformed into the kind of girl nobody wants to hang out with.

She has pretty much ruined every holiday event or special occasion.

There was Christmas where I watched in horror as she shredded open gift after gift barely pausing between to assess the present. When she finished she whined, “I want more presents to unwrap.”

I tried to convince myself it was just some kind of OCD obsession with the thrill of unwrapping.

She practically cried when I offered her Cinnamon Buns for breakfast, then downed two of them within minutes, sending her off on a sugary high, shrieking and bouncing around the house like a crackhead kangaroo.

ALMA BUN

She spent hours in separate “time outs.”

I asked her what her favorite gift from Santa was. (Santa, you know, the “guy” who bought all the presents, wrapped all the presents, decorated the tree and stealthily stuffed stockings when “he’d” rather have been sleeping.) Her response: “The kitty, I guess, but it was the wrong color and I didn’t get the doll carriage I wanted.”

This sent me off on a tear-filled, mimosa-fueled afternoon followed by a splitting headache and sweaty nap.

On New Year’s Eve, we used the Netflix fakeout countdown for the kids during which my daughter whined that she wanted to watch Batman instead.

Afterward, we partook in the Cuban traditions.

We were each eating our 12 grapes when Alma proceeded to drop 2 of them, 1 of which was never located. A slimy grape is currently curled up in our carpet maliciously awaiting a middle of the night barefoot run for a glass of water.

She refused to put pants and shoes on with her pajamas, despite the fact that it was super cold outside, because she wanted to “be Tinkerbell.”

We walked around the house with our suitcases in order to ensure a 2015 filled with travel. Of course, our neighbor walks out in a vest and tie on his way to celebrate New Year’s the way normal adults do. I can only imagine how ridiculous we looked traipsing through wet grass and dog shit with our luggage, wearing pajamas.

LUGGAGE

We get back to the front door and Alma starts fake-crying because she was under the false impression we would be walking around the whole neighborhood.

We go to dump our bucket of water out the front door to wash away all the crap that’s happened in 2014. Alma is throwing a fit because she wants to do it herself even though the Popcorn bowl is so heavy, she would end up on the sidewalk in the puddle.

WATER BUCKET

Last night, I managed to sneak out of work early because we had short newscasts on New Year’s Day. On the drive home, I am cheerful despite writing about sons decapitating their mothers and boyfriends nearly strangling their girlfriends to death. There is no traffic, it’s not too hot and I am arriving home before the sun sets.

So, we decide to take the kids out for pizza. After the 30 minute drive, we discover the restaurant is closed. Alma commences whining about how all she will eat is pizza, so we end up at chain Italian restaurant that shall remain unnamed.

I always planned to be the kind of parent that would NEVER let their children play on computers at the dinner table… until I ended up the kind of parent with kids that jostle me perpetually, ask “why” repeatedly and don’t allow me to eat a single bite of food without arguing with me about something.

So, I let Alma play with her Leapad. Instead of enjoying herself quietly, she’s demanding that I watch what she’s doing, take part in what she’s doing and talking over the Comicon, Dungeons and Dragons playing waitress who is trying to take our order.

Halfway through our overpriced, undercooked pasta, the little boy in the booth behind me stands up and projectile vomits spaghetti all over the floor.

The C-team staff starts to mop it up and then leaves little wet spaghetti pieces on the floor right next to me and the stinking mop and bucket right behind my husband.

My main resolution this year was just to detox, not for the entire year, but long enough to avoid feeling pickled post holidays.

January 1st and I’m making a Moscow Mule so I can suffer through putting my daughter to bed.

We’re coloring together and she’s wide-eyed and crazed, intentionally coloring hard and outside the lines.

She stays up too late on her computer. I take it away and tell her to sleep.

When it’s finally time for me and the husband to go to bed, he turns off the hallway light and I heard Alma yell, “MOM! MOM! Turn on the light! I can’t see!!!”

She says it like we’ve offended her sensibilities by turning out HER light when SHE is trying to stay up until midnight the day AFTER New Year’s Eve.

I cry myself to sleep while browsing Facebook, looking at people wearing their fun New Year’s Eve hats, drinking champagne, their children grinning and still joyously and gratefully playing with their Christmas loot.

It’s just a phase. It’s just a phase. Until… it’s not.