I’ve had some interesting neighbors in my time. We had the leader of a hispanic motorcycle gang two doors down. You know, the smell of gonga on your front porch after listening to 200 motorcycles drive by at midnight just doesn’t seem as opportunistic as it used to. I’ve had a lady who left their dogs out in the snow and didn’t seem to care and was offended when one of the dogs had a seizure and was irritated we try to help the dog. And I’ve had some neighbors give insightful lessons of the use of expletives to each other while throwing a hammer at their car. But the latest neighbor issue is driving me crazy.
Ricardo seems to think I’m obsessing over this. But every day that I walk out of my house, I see this:

I’ve done everything I can to alleviate this violation of my eyeballs in my quaint neighborhood. But to no avail. I’m hoping my emails and reports to the city have not fallen on deaf ears/eyes. Because after I filled out the little tattle_telling report, I emailed them these pictures. I mean, really, this is ridiculous.
Maybe I’m still bitter from three years ago when I had the audacity to try to introduce myself to this woman. She showed complete disinterest in me, my kids, or my minivan.
She bought the house for 2/3 the market value because the people before her split up, and the wife decided, “I’ll show you and your credit, mister” and she walked away from the house. She probably did show him. But we all suffered when the house sold for less than it’s value. Our neighborly hopes that the house sold to some great caring people who finally got a break were shattered. The new owner is young, single, and has a few roommates. Apparently she doesn’t appreciate kids, socializing, or even making eye contact and waving, well heck, she doesn’t like neighbors, it turns out. She also can’t be bothered with things like parking in her own drive way, or yard work. One of my other neighbors has begged her to let him help her in her back yard. For three years, y’all. Mais non.
After a year of not talking to us, we (the other neighbors and me) decided maybe she was going to flip the house. Which would be great, because she’d up the value and fix the place up. Three years, she’s only made it worse.
You can imagine each of our glee as we discovered she called over some friends to re_build her back deck. It required cutting the weeds trees down and mowing. But it got done. She cleaned up her backyard. And then proceeded to put all that cleaning out business, you guessed it, into the front yard. Which would be fine. Except, I think she thought if she just put it out in the front yard, the yard waste truck would pick it up.

I’m not sure what bothers me most, the dumpster, the brush that looks better than the landscaping, or the trash cans. Or maybe that the dumpster and trash cans are empty, but the yard is full…of trash.

I think you can see why the yard waste people probably laughed hysterically and then drove on by. It’s been there for three weeks. THREE WEEKS! The pile has settled to about a 6′ high, 15′ wide, and 10′ deep pile. It’s going to be great for Halloween. I guess she went to bizarre depths to keep kids from knocking on her door for candy. Large tree limbs are sticking out on to her sidewalk. It’s her liability.
She hasn’t walked out yet and asked, “Hi what do you think of my pile of crap in my front yard and the empty dumpster and my shitty landscaping, and my affliction with letting my roommates park in my driveway?” She hasn’t asked me any of that yet, so I’ve just told everyone else how I feel about it. I feel better. Don’t you?
That’s how I roll.
Song of the Day: Voodoo by Adam Sandler

Ricardo strolled by me “working” on my laptop today.
“Hey, what are you working on?” He used quote fingers when he said working.
“I’m looking at itunes for new tunes.”
“Dear God, is that CHRISTMAS MUSIC!?”
“Hey, some people have their Christmas shopping done already. I’m just checking out this year’s options.”
“And what are they?”
“Annie Lennox, some new piano gig, and Mariah Carey are doing Christmas albums this year.”
“So, no new options is what you’re saying?”
“I’ll find something. Don’t you worry.”
“Hey, where did you put our Christmas decorations?”
“In storage.”
“Okay, i’ll swing by and pick them up this weekend.”
“Yeah, you should do that. When you do, grab the Halloween decorations too.”
“Oh, good idea!”
And then I think I heard his head shaking in shame and disgust.
That’s how I roll.
Song of the Day: Holly Jolly Christmas by Burl Ives woops, I mean Thriller _ Michael Jackson

This picture was taken after one of our pep talks with Farley. I think the talks are really working, don’t you?
Farley is getting old. The reason I know this is because we just bought a new bedding set. It’s replacing the bedding we got for a wedding gift. You know, that wedding that was almost ten years ago. We’ve been holding off getting new bedding because the dog sleeps with us.
However, one day, Farley‘s hips just couldn’t take it anymore. He can’t jump up on our bed. So instead of being the kind owners and picking him up and helping him on to the bed, we bought him his own bed for the floor, and then shopped for new bedding. We have a beautiful bed. And a ten year old bedding set that has been washed every week for 9 1/2 years, no matter what quality, still ends up looking like a worn out baby blanket.
We were a little concerned Farley would take offense to the luxury of taking over our own bed as well as doing it in such comfort and beauty. Because now that the old tattered wooby is gone. We have a beautiful luxury_suite_looking bed now. Farley in his best Walter Matthau impression, makes it up the stairs at night, takes one look at our bed, rolls his eyes, and then circles his own bed and moans as he lays down for the night. As if to say, “I hope that fancy bed makes you happy. I prefer the simple life down here. On the floor.”
And now, no more Farley Fridays. We usually have Farley Friday, and Farley loads up with the kids for the ride to school. Damn dog. Last week, and the minute Max and Lucy got out of the car, he hiked his geriatric ass up onto the back seat and shit three giant human poops. If you’ll remember, he’s done this before. As if to say, “I’ll simply replace your children’s absence with my shit, mo fo.”
Jerk. I’d be mad, but he really does look like a confused old man at points like that. So, I had to break it to the kids: no more Farley Friday’s.
He can’t make it down the stairs today. It’s really sad. He finally thumps down, using just his front legs, and then just resigns that half his body is laying on the floor, maybe the other half will too. He’ll just have to go outside later. Uggh. Watching him fight it, and then accept defeat is absolutely heart wrenching.
I cannot take this dog letting me know when to make the call of his time to go. It’s too much. And he seems all there, especially when the kids leave the graham crackers on a chair he can reach without having to make an effort to get it. But then he seems tired and worn out too. For years I’ve been claiming the dog is near his end. But really, this time, it’s not because I want to kill him. This time, he’s constantly hobbling around like an old retired pro football player wishing he’d done more steroids in the prime of his career. Now the only steroids needed are some cortisone in those achey hips.
Once I got over all that, then apparently Farley decided he was okay with sleeping on the floor. That maybe he should remind us he’s still alive and kicking, and uh, pay attention. So, he poops. Every morning, he wakes up, struggles to stand up. And in doing so, what with that struggle and all, he poops. He has no idea he does it. We don’t tell him. He leaves us a little human_sized geriatric poop nugget on the floor every morning. Nice.
A couple of weeks ago, Farley had a play date with JulzHOLLA!’s dogs. One of her dogs is a medium_sized dog that minds her own business. The other one is a purse dog, and a total slut. And Farley falls for it every time, his hips failing, as he tries to hump her. It’s disturbing and sad to watch. So, we don’t get them together too often, but it was inevitable, we had to leave Farley at JulzHOLLA!’s for dog sitting for the day. The week after that playdate, we thought Farley was going to die. I mean, we really thought it was the end. He wouldn’t move, and got stuck on the stairs. It was awful and sad. I was devastated, and when Ricardo suggested we call the vet and ask what to do, I got a little freaked out. Because I’m the one who wants to go running to the doctors with my concerns all the time, not Ricardo.
We put a call into the doctor. Basically, we just don’t want to keep him going for our own selfish needs. Oh God, first we get rid of the cable, then we’re going to have to off the dog. The kids love this damned dog. The dog waits at the door while they play outside, barking at any injustice, whether it be the other kids winning a foot race instead of his own, or a poodle walking by. Farley loves these kids and the fact that they are messy eaters. He helps clean up for them. Oh God. Oh God. This will be rough.
But it turns out, my vet was on vacation. So, by the time he got back and called us, Farley had recovered. His playdate with the purse dog slut had destroyed his hips for a full week. He was fine now. And even warmed out hearts by tearing into Max’s lunch bag. Still, we had a nice conversation with the vet. The vet has begged us to walk Farley twice a day for 10 minutes each. It seems to be working.
That, or Farley heard the conversation, he sure has perked up. “Hey guys, I’m good. No seriously, please do not schedule an appointment for my demise with the vet! I’m cool! Look, see, I’m getting into the trash can right now. I’ve totally got this.” So Farley, good job communicating. We see that you’re getting old, but not anywhere close to death. I promise not to set you up with any slutly toy dogs anymore.
Still, the kids seem to detect the urgency of showing this dog all the love they can. Farley reciprocates with still “protecting” them from the front window, still eating their scraps, and lots of kisses. Everyday seems to matter more with Farley. Damned Dog!
That’s how I roll.
Song of the Day: What’s My Name _ Snoop Dogg

This one was just lurking in the dark, waiting for me to give in and be THAT mom. To my defense, I had Ricardo’s complete support as well as his own contribution.
When I refer back to my coaching days… WHAT? They LET you coach? …yes, I know. They let me have children, too. Anyways, when I refer back to my coaching days, I always say, “Coaching would have been fine except for the parents.”
I once had a kid’s mom call me at work, and threaten to send her husband up to kick my ass. No lie. Quite frankly, that didn’t scare me at all. I was more afraid of fighting the wife than the husband. That, and at the time, I worked for a bunch of retired military guys. They were excited at the potential for battle and of course, to protect me from harm. I clinched and prayed I’d still have a job the next day. The husband never showed up. All of that was over playing time and the team wasn’t winning enough to the woman’s expectations. Did I mention the kids girls were 12_years_old?
I also had a girl one time, who got a volleyball serve in her face because her parents were “instructing” her from the bleachers in the back and apparently the whistle to begin play, nor me asking them to leave her alone wasn’t enough. And kablammo, Tachikara tattooed on her face. Very helpful, sir.
So, really, it’s been my experience that parents ruin coaching. And the people willing to coach are true heroes. I mean, a fireman knows, and is trained to walk into a fire. A new coach, usually starting out to just help his kid’s pee_wee team, may know about the sport, but has not been trained to deal with the wrath of parents. Parents _ in the name of their precious children _ lose their effn minds.
When we signed Max up for football this year, they had a huge parents’ meeting, and the only thing I remember said was one rule: “You can’t approach a coach with any questions after a game. You must wait until Monday. Coaches are emotional, usually. Parents are emotional. Wait a day.” That is brilliant. As a parent, a former coach, a simple spectator, and a communications instructor, that is flippin brilliant.
And we’ve got some helicopter parents on the team. Just a couple. You know the ones, you’re just waiting for them to go run onto the field to tell Bobby to make sure he TACKLES someone. Nice input. Don’t get me wrong, I’m certain I have the reputation for the lady who effn breaks glass when she screams for her son. Hey, it’s not my fault Max is THAT good. Oh God, I’m THAT mom too. Shit.
Anyways, Max is pretty good, but the team has been losing a little bit. Okay, fine, all the games so far. We start seeing a progression of the coaches first, and then the kids getting really frustrated. It was to the point that the last game escalated to a lot of mixed communication to 8_year_old kids that I didn’t deem necessary, helpful, nor allowed at all.
Mind you, I’m teaching interpersonal communications, among other things. And everything that happened at that game is what NOT to do in my awesome lectures. So, we waited til Monday and sent an email. Lo, I’m THAT mom. I’m THAT parent. While stewing for the prescribed 24 hours, I waited for Ricardo to tell me how out of line I was. He was only reinforcing my grievances. We ended up composing the email together. Then we edited it. And send.
Dammit, I’m THAT mom. But I just can’t back down from his one. Granted, I didn’t offer up my man to go kick anyone’s ass. Just asked for a little revival of more positive influence. Because, it’s been a while since I’ve seen a coach at any level and thought, “Wow, that guy BELONGS in coaching.” But this guy, he really does. I really want to tell him, “Seriously dude, QUIT YOUR DAY JOB!” He just comes alive when he coaches, and he knows his football. Its apparent.
Thankfully, I think our email was received just as intended. And from my working days in marketing, nothing impresses me more than a follow_up, and action on the follow_up. I don’t think we were the only parents that said something.
That’s how I roll
Song of the day: Lonesome Dove Theme Song

We’ve been going to a lot of football practice lately. A lot. Three times a week a lot plus gameday. And Lucy literally puts herself between us and Max to block the view. “Pay Attention to ME! ME! ME! Who cares that Max just threw that touchdown pass. Look, I can READ!” That’s great. Ricardo and I are incessantly begging her to let us watch Max. It’s his time.
So, Lucy, who opted to live free, with no commitments, and all, is bursting at the seams for attention that already we give her, just not at a practice. She decides maybe she should sign up for dance. I tell her I’ll look into it, but that they’ve already started, and I don’t know when they let kids into the classes and all.
Last year, I made her do ballet. But this year, I tell her, it has a lot to do with our schedule, but she can do jazz or hip hop if she wants. Ultimately it’s going to have to do with our schedule. Because Max has football on Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays and games on Sunday. I teach class on Tuesday nights. Ricardo takes a class on Wednesday night. This could get interesting.
Lucy suggests interest in some other type of dance classes but ultimately decides she wants to take ballet again with the same dance instructor she had last year. That speaks bounds to me. Me and the dance instructor don’t always agree, but she was a great instructor for the kids. And it turns out, we had a lot more in common than I’d originally thought. Like, we both love my girl and all! I hope we can do it.
I drop by the dance studio on the way home from teaching one day. There’s no kids there yet, and two very young _ possibly interns _ ladies working the desk. I plead my case and ask if I can get her into a class. They say yes, depending on the class and if it’s full or not and then they show me the schedule. I hold my breath because I know their schedule and my schedule aligning up is a mere impossibility. And lo, the next level ballet class with the same instructor fits perfect into our schedule. Wait a second, it’s the only class that works with our schedule. Great sign her up.
And that’s when the two young ladies turned into Bill Lumbergh from Office Space, “Um, yeah, thaaaaat class is fulllllll.”
Uggh. They suggest I put her on the waiting list, and so I do. And then they make the mistake of reassuring me with the fact that she’s the only one on the waiting list so she’ll probably get in.
Wait. She’s the only one? Can’t she just get into the class.
Girly Lumbergh says, “Um yeah, no we can’t do thaaaaat.”
Me: “Please?”
Lumbergh: “I’m sorry we can’t do that. There’s a limit on how many kids are in a room for space and the instructor.”
And then I went into THAT Mom mode. You know. The one who flashes the smile and anything for her baby girl Mom. Yeah, I went there.
“Look, this is totally my fault that she’s on the waiting list and not the class. She really wants to be in the class. She’s real skinny. She won’t take up much room. I’m sure she’ll fit. Please, she really needs this and this is the only class that fits into our schedule, which by the way, also not her fault. I hate to be THAT mom but please, I’ll do whatever it takes to get her in the class. Please. I promise she’s tiny and she listens real well. Please. Please! Please?”
Lumbergh: “Um yeah, NO. Didn’t you get the memo?”
Okay, she didn’t say that memo part. But she did say no. I have a little talk with myself about always trying to get my way. And resolve to leave with Lucy on the waiting list. Dangit. Fine.
In the car, I realize, I could call later and get the non_lumbergh interns on the phone. I could call and ask to talk to someone in charge and beg her to let Lucy in. But I don’t want to be THAT mom. So I don’t do it. Until about a week goes by and I think, “Well, I’ll just call and see how the waiting list is going.”
So, I do. I call, I’m officially THAT mom. I get the exact person in charge I hope for. I explain my case, ask if there’s any way I can get Lucy in that class. Well, as a matter of fact there is. She can ask the instructor and if the instructor says it’s okay, then she can do it.
Sure enough Miss American Girl Doll says yes!
THAT Mom worked this time. But I’m going to have to remember to use my THAT Mom powers for only good selfless deeds, and not for my own. This use of my special powers of THAT Momness proved worthy.
I took Lucy to ballet this week, when she got in the car to go to ballet she questioned why Max wasn’t going to her ballet class. It turns out, she didn’t want to do ballet because it was fun. She wanted to do ballet so her brother would have to suffer through her classes, just like she does at football practice.
Well, that’s a warm and fuzzy feeling. Making mommy turn into THAT mom for only purpose of vengeance. Nice.
I explained that she should be happy she’s in the class for her, and not to punish her brother. She conceded and then went in to class. She is unmistakeably beautiful and graceful. I forgot how much fun it was to watch her dance.
Isn’t she the MOST BEAUTIFUL Ballerina EVER!?
Yeah, I’m THAT Mom.
That’s how I roll.
Song of the day: Skyline by the Courtyard Hounds

Kids, here’s your lunch! This week has its own theme. It’s THAT important.
I’ve started making lunches for the kids to take to school. Thanks to clean eating, and Jamie Oliver’s Food Revolution, and well, my own eyes, nose and taste buds, allowing the kids to eat the lunch food just doesn’t seem like a responsible thing to do. Mind you, there’s been a lot of changes in the lunch room since I was a student attaining my oily skin and thunder thighs by slurping down fiestada’s and whole chocolate milk. But whatever.
Everyday for the last three years, I’ve been putting money into a lunchmoney account _ $20 a week_ and then asking the kids, “What did you have for lunch today?” and “What did you eat off of the cart?” Because the vegetables and fruit are on a cart. The kids can walk right by it if they choose. Thankfully, mine don’t. Or they say they don’t. But they usually get the peaches or pineapple that are bathing in fruit syrup and that defeats the purpose of any nutritional value as far as I’m concerned. Sometimes they get salad, but word on the streets is the salad is simply a utensil for a soup of ranch dressing. Gross. And they always get the chocolate milk which is so thick with syrup it makes me want to gag. The chocolate milk they serve has more sugar in it than a coke. Yes it does. Really.
So, I started making their lunches. I kept it fun and quasi healthy. I certainly don’t pack tofurkey sandwiches. But I try to keep it on the up and up. To keep them interested in these lunches, I started writing on the napkin, and I was swiftly told: “No mushy notes on the napkins, Mom” That’s when I started writing animal facts on the napkin. The animal facts are a big hit. I get them from a giant kids’ encyclopedia, one of three we have around here. I’m not running low on facts, y’all. Every morning, I make their lunch, I write a fact, they go to school. Max and Lucy love getting to lunch and seeing what animal it is today, and they eat their wholesome goodness well_balanced lunch. Even the carrots. All is right with the world.
The new assistant principal started reading their animal facts _ because the kids were already sharing them with their whole table. And so, he reads them and the kids told me he always comes and checks on what animal of the day they have. I’m officially cool.
A few months of this go by and I see the assistant principal at a family function and we banter about my cool animal facts and how much the kids love them. When another school faculty member joins in and deflates my ever_sensitive ego with: “I would love to be THAT mom, but I just can’t.”
Not, “You’re so busy, how do you do it?” or “That’s so cool that you keep their minds stimulated while they eat NUTRITIOUS food, not the shit we serve here and they they focus on reading and science while they eat.” Nothing like that. Just “Oh, you’re THAT mom.”
I’m well aware that I’m a wee bit oversensitive to this comment. But let’s be real, I’ve already been accused of being “THAT mom” last year. I’m trying to be a good attentive mom, engaged in my kids education and all that crap. And instead of being revered for it, I’m getting a reputation of overbearing and negative connotation for it. Someone should just give me an effn trophy. I’m just sayin.
I’m a little sensitive to the comment because 1)I’m busier now, more than ever, and B) I like to keep myself busy with motherhood by overcompensating for my own childhood. I’m busier with what has accumulated to full_time work load. And I’m still in denial about going from part_time to full_time work, but the math equation is simple: (two schools to part_time teach for) X (each school giving you more hours you asked for, dumbwad) = full time plus some. Clearly, I’m more busy than ever.
If by THAT mom, you mean, active in the kids’ lives, not drunk, and fairly overcompensating, you’re damn right I am, lady. It takes me 10 minutes to make their lunches. It takes about 2 minutes to write the notes. So, if you mean, “Oh you’re THAT mom who commits 12 minutes to your kids lunches.” Yes. I. Am. This is gonna blow your mind too, we make them a hot breakfast every morning too. And then their dinner is usually homemade too including two vegetables, a protein and a carb.
Truly I think the woman wasn’t taking a stab at me, but she really does wish she had the capacity to write a note to her kids. My point is, she does if I do. She is a busy and hard_working woman She’s up at the school, ALL THE TIME, just like I’ve been accused of, which is probably why I’m so sensitive to comments like this. Ofcourse, she works there, but whatever. I also think her kids are older. So, writing a note to them might not be as embraced by her kids. Still, the comment obviously struck a chord with me. For a millisecond, it even made me doubt myself. Am I hovering too much or being too attentive to my kids?
And then a few days later, Max got in the car and started talking about how everyone loved his napkin today. He didn’t know all that about Eagles, and it was so cool.
I will continue to be THAT mom as long as my kids let me.
That’s how I roll.

I think I feel the same way about a swarm of kids as I do about a swarm of mosquitoes: I don’t want to walk into that. And I can swat a swarm of mosquitoes. I don’t necessarily have that same option with a swarm of kids.
Yesterday, against my better judgment, I went to speak to 20 wild and wiggly 3rd graders about how to write their voice.
Max and Lucy’s teacher, Mrs. McKool, emailed me:
“Would you be interested in teaching a little lesson on putting voice in your writing. You do such an awesome job with “voice” I think it would be really cool to share your know_how with the kids. They also think it’s really fun and exciting to have a different teacher in the room. They get tired of my same old voice! no pun intended.
Just let me know if you’d be interested. I know kids scare you and all. ;_)”
Well, let’s be real, two out of the twenty kids in the class are pretty sick of me and my voice already. This will be a catastrophe, and yes I will do it, because she totally got me with that whole “you’re the most brilliant writer, teach us your ways” comment. What? Y’all didn’t hear that in her email voice? I did! So, I said yes.
And another thing she was right about: a large mass of children scares me. I’m a Communications Instructor. Mind you, most of my job is trying to get students to relax and overcome their very irrational fears about public speaking.
The closer the time approached for me to go talk to the kids’ class, I started freaking out. You know that visual from Night of the Living Dead when the zombies just come toward you, and you can’t get away? That’s the visual I get of kids. They just come closer, and closer, and they have sticky hands and milk mustaches, and they just keep getting closer. And I have to teach them something? Who the hell is letting me in there to do this? Am I getting PUNK’D? And why didn’t anyone tell me I’ve hit celebrity fame to get PUNK’D!?
You mean THAT kind of irrational fear about public speaking?
I email Mrs. McKool: “I’ve been working on my gig for your class. This is fun! But don’t get any crazy ideas, I’m petrified too. Please don’t let the kids eat me!”
Her response: “HA!!! They are pretty hungry today!”
Real funny, lady. Jokes on you though. I know you have conferences this week and next. Nanny. Nanny. You have to deal with the parents!
Still, I went in and did it. I’m pretty sure the kids figured me out that I was nervous, and a total sucker. Because one of the reasons for the irrational fear of children, to me is very rational _ I simply don’t want to hurt a kids’ feelings.
My kids started out acting exactly as I’d prepped them not to: total smart asses. Any of my old teachers out there, you are welcome. Your hexes that my smartassness would one day come back on me have come true. Please take the hex off. OMG Did I just offer to walk my own kid down to the principal? Why, yes. I. Did. And it worked.
I would so suck as a teacher, what with all that time management and stuff. I just couldn’t not call on a kid who wanted to speak. And strangely enough, they all wanted to speak. This is a foreign concept to me. In my college classes, I ask a question, and heads go down so as not to make eye contact and be called on. So, this third grade eagerness caught me off guard.
To see all these kids so eager to speak up was exciting to me. Hands up high, like they are posting up for the ball, but that damned point guard is a ball hog and showboater. Whatever. We get it, you can dribble between your legs behind the three point line. We get it. GIVE ME THE EFFN BALL, LOOK HOW HIGH MY HAND IS! I’M OPEN! I’M OPEN! CALL ON ME! CALL ON ME! So I did. Every one of them. And it took a while. And then my 30_minute lesson turned in to an hour and 15 minutes. Which, by the way, is another big deal I teach in public speaking: stay within your time limit.
I really don’t know how Mrs. McKool does it. To be as compassionate as she is, and yet stay on task, well, it’s brilliant. She’s brilliant.
The strange thing that happened though, was I went an hour and 15 minutes, had fun, and I think I might have even shown them how their voice in writing is different and unique. But I also went a little long and kind of lost them after a while. I could have stopped at 45 minutes, and had greater impact. I will note that for my next performance.
Still, word on the streets is that some of them are still talking about how fun that writing exercise was. And that might be the best feedback ever.
Lucy told me I could read this story from the blog to the class. I read it to show my own voice, and that it could have just been a “We went on a road trip. Lucy got sick. It was gross.” But instead, through using detail and voice, it turned out totally better than that. And everyone understood the experience almost like they felt like they were in the car with us. Except, I don’t think I explained it that well in person. Maybe I’ll go back and re_read this blog post next week.
Still, now Lucy’s a little embarrassed. I’m hoping it doesn’t come back on her. Otherwise I’m in deep poop…with an 8 year old. And hurting my little girl’s feelings might be worse than those dreaded kid zombies I just conquered.
That’s how I roll.