Now that Bo has teeth, his tongue is never at rest. Mouth acrobatics are performed constantly as he finds new ways to rake his tongue over the sharp white nubs emerging from his gum.

It makes for some pretty hilarious pictures:

I found myself googling this very phrase today. You see, I want to plan our menu, shop around that plan, stick to that plan and save us even more money but I’m planning phonic.

A few years ago while in therapy, we tried to tackle this problem. We meaning, the therapist kept giving me a day planner worksheet as homework and me bringing it back a week later covered in scribbled out plans and eraser holes. The closest I could get was writing down doctor appointments and then on other days writing “today I will do something”- not exactly what he had in mind.

I know part of the issue is fearing failing at the day. As if writing down “today I’m going to do laundry, clean the bathroom and make Swedish meatballs” means that I have completely failed at life if one or more of those tasks just doesn’t happen. That’s a lot of pressure. Just thinking about it makes me want to hyperventilate.

The other half of the equation is me suddenly getting all 5 year old on my schedule and thinking YOU CAN’T MAKE ME DO IT! As though the mere suggestion that I should plan on eating tilapia next Tuesday takes away my last grains of sweet sweet freedom and thus I must rebel accordingly.

My planning hatred has impeded other areas of my life too. I wish I could break up the household cleaning over the week instead of cleaning like a mad woman one day when I can no longer take the mess. Mira thrives on planning, feeding on ample notice, ruminating over the impending date and driving me up the wall. I’d love to be able to provide her with a Monday we mop, Tuesday we wash, Wednesday we.. kind of life. I just don’t know how.

He looks more and more like a little boy every day. His diaper is the only piece of baby/toddlerhood left clinging to him. Ironically, it’s the one vestige I wish he would shed.

Most people would assume that my refusal to camp was part of some princess complex but for me, that is not the case. Yeah, so the ground isn’t the most comfortable thing to sleep on and crapping behind a tree isn’t exactly the kind of vacation memory I want to cherish but these are things I can work around. What I can not work around is being murdered in my sleep.

Stop laughing.

No really, stop laughing.

Dudes, I am serious. Have you ever googled “murdered while camping?” It pretty much confirms all my fears.

When presented with the opportunity to separate myself from the faceless murderous masses using either a very thin sheet of nylon or a wall of wood/concrete/brick, I’m certainly not going to choose something that a hunting knife slices through like butter. This means that all tents, pop up campers, and yurts are a no go.

And lest you continue to just mock me, let us not forget the Girl Scout tragedy of ‘77- even the queens of camping are not immune.

Thus, until they start selling tents complete with an anti murderer force field, you’ll find me over in the cabins or a hotel room behind a bolted door, possibly with the dresser pushed in front of it.

Most Likely … Unauthorized

Originally uploaded by @ThetaState

A friend tweeted this link & I laughed so hard that I snorted. I’m not a fan of graffiti unless it’s well thought out.