Blog - ELHoneThe first birthday.

Amazing, right?  How fast the year went, that her dad and I haven’t caused irrevocable harm, blah, blah, blah.

Sure it’s cool for her, but it’s super awesome for me.  I get to scour pinterest, craft, decorate, repeat.  Two full weeks spent shopping for the perfect skirt to match her homemade onesie.  Late nights tangled in twine prepping the high chair banner. Bleeding fingers cropping her school pictures for party favors.

Then Jonas dumped two feet of snow on all our fun.  My heart broke.

She pounded on her balloon, shoved cake in her face and didn’t give a shit.



Blunt Force

Here’s how the bi-weekly conversation goes:Blog-start

Me: I just, I just don’t know what to do (This is where I throw my hands up). It’s, I just, ugh, (dramatic pause) I don’t know (Bring down the hands, cue the slumped shoulders).

Him: You can’t stop working for 7 years.  That’s the deal (the deal used to be 5, but whatever).

Me: I know, I know!  I don’t even want to necessarily not work, I just want something else (fuming because he doesn’t understand anything at all…).

Authors Note: My current “something else” ideas in no particular order: co-owner omelette restaurant (my husband has the cooking prowess, I’d be the idea woman/designer/greeter); author children’s picture book; owner baby goods store; sommelier/owner wine and dessert restaurant; professional crafter on etsy. 

Him (turning from the TV): You’ve got a freaking blog.  What else do you want?

Me (thinking): You mother —.  You’re supposed to be telling me how you believe in me.  You support my dreams, will travel with me through the unknown. Push me to be my best, etc, etc.

And suddenly, in the middle of my silent rant, a beam of golden sunshine backlit my husband’s big bean.  He had cut through my bullshit once again.

Oh F. He’s right. I did what Acuff taught me to do.  I started. 

And much quicker than he was anticipating, my oft blunt husband was off the hook.


Kris Kross

Remember these guys?


These handsome fellas comprised the rap sensation Kris Kross that bounded onto the scene in the early 90s.  Besides cranking out monster hits, their claim to fame was backward attire.

Though their star has since faded, I hold a warm place in my heart for these two.  However, I tend to subconsciously channel my inner Daddy Mac at the worst times – like last week, at Jazzercise.

Per usual, I arrived late to class.  I dashed into the gym, flung off my coat and started sashaying and lunging.  I don’t know if it was the fact that the neck of my t-shirt was slowly strangling me, or if it was the tag smacking me in the face, but suddenly I was keenly aware that my shirt was on backwards.  Little lettering spelled my name just under my chin and a huge graphic was plastered across my back.

My face got hot.  What to do?  Hop out to the bathroom to fix it?  Rock it like I meant it? Ignore?  Is this how Daddy Mac felt when a little old lady crossing the street noticed a zipper up his butt?

In the end, I popped my arms in, furiously twisted the shirt, and popped both arms back out.  Right in the middle of a step jump.  My classmates went right on dancing.  They must be Kris Kross fans.


Best Mom Ever


Chicken pox

It started with a numb hip and a single red dot.

“Honey, look!” Poke, poke.  “I can’t feel my hip.”

Chad looked, though admittedly, numbness doesn’t exactly show well.  “Huh.” he said, uninterested.

“I’m serious,” Poke, poke. “I can’t feel this,” I continued to jab my bare hip.

“You can’t feel that?”

“Well, I can,” I tried to explain, “but it feels all pins and needles-y, like when you go to the dentist.  You know.”

“Weird.”  My husband is not easily ruffled by my (sometimes over-inflated) medical issues.

“It’s the spiders!”  I nastily spat.  We were on vacation at a rustic location with my husband’s family.  So naturally, it had to be related.

Over the next couple days I continued to prod my hip and examine my bite.  My side started to ache and wake me up at night.  “That f’ing spider came back and brought his friends!  Look!”  There were several more bites, all in a circle on my hip. The more painful my hip became, the more I cursed this family vacation.

By the time we came home, those “bites” were in blistery, angry red splotches across my hip and back.  I hypothesized – Poison Ivy?  Oak?  But it doesn’t itch.  I was popping Ibuprofen throughout the day and decided I had to go to the doc. Except I don’t have one, so I went to one of those pop-in places and was officially diagnosed with “A rash of unknown origin”.   Whatever.  Just give me the cream so I can get rid of this damn thing!

Over the next couple weeks, my nasty rash crusted and peeled away.  It was far from my mind when two weeks later my six month old daughter had two “mosquito bites” on her face.  One looked puss-filled.  Then another showed up on her leg.  The next morning, she had ten on her head.

It took us two visits to the pediatrician to determine she had chicken pox.  They don’t see it much anymore because just about everyone besides Jenny McCarthy vaccinates their kids at 12 months.  But, babies can still contract it from someone with shingles. Someone like their clueless mother.

Hoighty Toighty Henny Penny

toe jam
I’m tired of the hoighty toighty know-it-all baby books that promise to tell you what no one else will tell you about having a baby.  They proclaim a sky-is-falling mentality with a side of optimism:
  • Breast feeding may make your nipples bleed, but it’s so rewarding.
  • Sex will never feel the same again, but you will get your libido back.
  • You can still get pregnant while breastfeeding (though it will be from that mediocre sex).

You know what book?  You can suck it.

Life after childbirth is not exactly how Henny Penny would have us believe.  Yes, nipples may bleed and sex may take some time and practice, but with clenched teeth, we will get through it – and both will be awesome. And, well, we may get pregnant sooner than we think, but hey, at least we’re banging again.

Here’s a little nugget I learned that I really didn’t read in a book.  Babies get toe jam.  In those teeny-tiny toes.  And it’s so cute.  Pumpkin can’t do much for herself, but her little toesies can snatch up every last piece of lint from her pjs.

And here’s something else I’ve learned.  Yes, life changes, but the sky doesn’t fall.  Things like cleaning baby toe jam become the new normal and in a few months you feel like yourself again. With toe jam to clean. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Ms. Penny.