Does this sweater make me look fat?

When I picked up Deal from preschool yesterday the first words that popped out of his mouth were, "Mommy, you look like there's a baby in your belly in that sweater!" His eyes were wide and glistening with surprise the way they were when I picked him up from school after I had just lopped off 11 inches of hair.

I shimmied him out of public range and tried to laugh it off, telling him that the sweater was just baggy and of course Mommy has no baby in there. Ahem, ha ha ha. Funny, right? Blush. Groan. Hmmm....

And so I thought we were done with that.

Four hours later at Target. Right after the snooty private school down the road has dismissed for the day. Plaid uniformed tweens and teens linked arm in arm, giggling and gurgling with glee. Stepford Moms to the left of me, jokers to the right, there I was stuck in the middle with Deal.

And in the boys underwear aisle, flanked by the very busy girls underwear aisle, Deal exclaims, "Mommy! You do have a baby in your belly under that sweater! I can see the bump!" Then he proceeded to poke me, as if his little curled fist couldn't resist.

Heads turned and stared right at my stomach. Never in my life have I sucked my stomach in so far. The kid once again took my breath away.

Preconceptions of a Porn Star

I harbor my own stereotypes, preconceptions, misconceptions, prejudices, if you will.

So let me just say that if you are a 40-something male sporting a mustache that requires combing, a thick gold chain with a nautical knot and Italian horn, a shirt unbuttoned to your navel, exposing a shag carpet remnant, tight jeans forcing me to have impeccable eye contact, and you approach me and my boys at the playground, my inner voice is screaming porn star!

Seriously, dude, you can't come to a park looking like your resume hails from behind the purple velvet curtain at your locally owned video rental shop.

How I Lost 11 Inches in a Day

I did something drastic recently. Yes, drastic.

I lost 11 inches.

And I'm not talking waist line (not that I couldn't use it).

I'm for sure not talking height or I'd be writing to you propped up on a couple of phone books like I did in driver's ed (cuz I'd be 4'1).

Read on, friends...

You gotta love a place that gives out Blo Pops to every client. This, plus the massage shampoo chairs, wine, and water with a slice of lemon, fantastic music, and oh, the awesome staff and haircuts too. This place is totally worth the drive. And you know that means a lot from me because I rarely leave my five mile radius of convenience.

This is the scene of the incident. Where I took drastic measures. But thankfully not into my own hands.

This is me. I'm wearing a cape, which is as close to a super hero as I'll ever get. Please ignore my dark circles. I blame my mother for them. As in genetics, not that she's personally responsible for my stress and lack of sleep.

Meet Rachael. She freaking rocks. She's a hot mama of two. And did I mention she rocks? If I had a million dollars to blo (get it? ha ha!) I'd build a house for Rachael right next to mine so she could do my hair everyday and be my Ken Paves.


Here's my 11 inches. My ponytail died a peaceful death surrounded by supportive friends and the bass of an awesome farewell soundtrack.

This is me feeling freedom for the first time in years. This style might have worked in the 80s with the whole bi-level shag thing going on. But Rachael wouldn't leave me hanging like that. And wow does my hair look shiny. Must be the flash.

See how happy I am. I don't usually go around hugging my stylist, but this outcome deserved it.

Check us out. A picture of perfection. My smile is not fake. Rachael's might be because I think I am encroaching on her personal space and I'm not wearing that protective cape. Also, do you see how we are both short? I love friends who don't tower over me. I don't experience that often. I do, however, think this hair style makes me look tall. OK, tallish.

And voila! Me. Rocking a short do and loving it. LOVING it! I need new earrings and necklaces now. Another reason to shop. Just what Mac Daddy wants to hear.

And those 11 inches didn't end up in a Hefty garbage bag or clogging some drain. They're on their way to Locks of Love. My shorn locks will be made into a wig for a lucky kid somewhere. Hopefully not for someone with naturally blonde eyebrows.

Accentuate the Positive

So how do you like my shirt? You love it, don't you? Can you read it well enough to see the most excellent tag line? It says "Accentuate the positive." I got the shirt from Erin by way of Jen. Pretty cool, huh? I'm going to wear it proudly everyday until the election. Well, being the neat freak I am, I'll wash it regularly. But I can't promise I'll fold it. The empty guest room acts as our clean laundry depository. It's best to make use of our space, right?

Watch this video to see me in my other fave Obama shirt. You'll see Bird and Deal in their shirts too. We're going to all wear our shirts in a little neighborhood parade when we go vote on November 4 (NOTE: North Carolina's deadline to register to vote is TODAY, and early voting starts next THURSDAY.).

Let's have an Obama bling runway show. Send me a link to you wearing your favorite shirt or pin or hat or whatever.

It's a Wrap.

We are taking a family trip to LA in a couple weeks. I'll have to pack less in my carry on bag since both boys are potty trained now (insert crazy happy dance here). I'll tuck in a change of clothes just in case...fingers crossed! No diapers and baby gear that we needed in the past. No formula. No sippy cups. Same snacks and diversions. The snacks are mostly carbs since it's not so easy to pack bananas and apples. I've tried it, and my bag smelled like mushed bananas for weeks. I swear, I would have been the pied piper of monkeys had I taken that bag to the zoo. And let's face it, carrot sticks are not a fun plane snack so I resort to things like trail mix, pretzels, plantain ships, granola bars, and fruit snacks as a treat. Oh, and lollipops. Helps with the whole air pressure thing while passing for a super treat. Diversions are now of the electronic variety: laptop with DVDs, Leapster, iPod. Does anyone make headphones that stay on a kid's head or in his ears?

Lots to consider when trying to ensure the comfort of my kids and the fellow passengers around us who drew the short stick when seats were assigned. Airplanes are notoriously cold. No need to be nipping out cold in the air, folks. Seriously, does anyone else have this problem? I'm pretty certain my headlights aren't helping the pilot see. I wear layers and pack two thin large receiving blankets for Bird and Deal (takes up way less room than a couple sweatshirts). Mac Daddy must fend for himself, and it's not my fault that he always forgets a sweater for the plane. I just have to endure the complaining.

I believe in looking chic and being comfortable on a plane. My parents taught me and my brother that at a young age, and I'm telling you, it makes a difference. I dress my kids accordingly in something matching and adorable (not Little Lord Fauntleroyish, however). I used to travel in jeans and a cute jacket or something. You'll never, ever catch me in sweats or wind suit (on a plane or elsewhere for that matter). And sneakers? Pshaw! Not a chance (even before the whole stripping down to bare feet to walk where 76,000 people have walked barefoot before you thing started). Since having kids I've resorted to sporting jeans or a jersey dress with a machine washable black cardigan. My fave black cardigan is now more the color of a 1932 penny found in the bottom of a well. What's a girl to do? Jean jacket? Another cardigan? Pashmina?

Then I discovered Adam Peele, aka Ahpeele.

The chic little kimono wrap I ordered from Etsy arrived today. I love it, love it, love it! The design is spectacular and surprisingly versatile. The color is neutral enough without being boringly so. I'm going to wear this wrap everyday until I die. The cotton is soft yet stretchy, but not in that if-you-stretch-it-it-will-stay-stretched-out kind of way. The wrap is perfect with jeans or a strappy sundress. Oh, and the best part? Something about the cut of the wrap makes my pipes look, well, cut. Make that well-cut. (God, don't you just love language?!)I think I'm going to pair mine with a brown tank (to hide spilled coffee stains and chocolate fingerprints), jeans, and slip on flats for the plane. Don't be surprised if I'm wearing that little number in every single family photo. I'm totally packing every outfit around my new wrap.

Resell. Reuse. Recycle.

I loved being pregnant. I ate with abandon and loved not having to suck in my stomach for a good seven months. And I admit, the elastic waistband was my best friend. God, I miss that. My slight frame of 100 pounds did flourish to 145 when Bird was growing in me. That's almost HALF my body weight for those readers who never aced a math class. And to think I lost and gained it all back with Deal. For the record, I did lose it a second time too. Nonetheless, pregnancy was a piece of cake...and a bowl of ice cream, a handful of cheese fries, a decaf vanilla latte, and mango lassis. Maternity clothes were even cute and getting cuter every season!

Birth was easy too. Please don't smack me next time you see me. Granted, I had the modern medicine benefit of an epidural (This girl had nothing to prove. Clearly millions of women before me gave birth without drugs. I know it can be done. Not for me. I figure we don't get a root canal without Novocaine these days so why shirk the comforts of medicine? I'm not preaching epidurals for all, just stating my experience.) Plus, I swear by prenatal yoga to open things up. Anyway, three hours from start to finish (labor pain to baby in arms), three pushes, done. Mac Daddy jokes that he didn't even get to crack into the snacks we packed. Bunion surgery was way worse than childbirth.

So pregnancy was a dream, childbirth an ease, motherhood...a different story that you'll glimpse through the annals of this blog. After two healthy pregnancies and two healthy boys, this girl is done. I sold or donated all my maternity clothes, though I was tempted to hang on to a few discrete pieces for those days I needed some fat pants.

If your closets are still bulging with maternity wear you'll wear no more, check out Belly Bundles. You can consign your maternity clothes, make some cash, and be green! Yes, recycling clothing is an easy way to treat our planet gingerly. If you're in the market for new chic maternity fashions, Belly Bundles will be a dream. You can buy twice as many hot outfits for the price of one new one at Motherhood. Maternity clothes get such little wear and tear so all the pieces are in top shape. And with designers like Michael Stars and Japanese Weekend, you're sure to find some awesome additions to your growing addition. I spent waaaayyy too much time window shopping and I'm never going to be pregnant again. Hmmmm...that almost makes me shed a tear.

Haute Momma

Now this is what I want my boys to don on Mother's Day. You know I'm not opposed to using Bird and Deal as my personal billboards. It's always fun to gauge the public's expressions of wonderment, disdain, and judgement. It's not like the boys are sporting this. Even I have boundaries and a modicum of taste.

Regardless what your kids wear, it's a reflection of you. Like it or not. No different than what you drive, where you live, where you shop, how you vote, where you worship, what you in fact wear. Your kids represent Brand You. Now go get them some duds that tell the world how much you rock.

TSPUM: Treaty to Stop the Proliferation of Unflattering Momwear

I do not claim to be a fashionista, fashion slave, or trend setter. OK, admittedly I can be a fashion victim. No one will ever add "Style Icon" to my epitaph. Audrey Hepburn I ain't.

That doesn't stop me from having an opinion on what moms wear.

Here's the Dirt & Noise Treaty to Stop the Proliferation of Unflattering Mom Wear:

Mom jeans. Burn them. Turn them into dog bed covers. Use them as ground cover to keep weeds at bay. Just do not wear them. A high waist, full thigh, and tapered leg is not flattering on anyone. Even my nine foot tall super model friend MH wouldn't look good in them. And trust me, she looks good in everything because clothes are made to fit a nine foot tall size 0 these days.

Keds. Seriously, why are you wearing the same sneaks you wore when you were 7-years old? Mischa Barton pockets the paycheck, but the girl doesn't have one lousy pair of Keds in her closet. Go ahead and sport some cool Pumas instead.

Wind suits. Track suits. Call it what you will. Your clothing should not make more noise than your children. The whoosh whoosh sound of your thighs rubbing together in a pair of nylon sweat pants is warning enough to make others leave the playground premises. How about some capri sweat pants and a cute hoodie instead? Just don't wear "Juicy" across your ass. And by all means, don't match your husband unless you are on the same Olympic team.

Your husband's button down shirt. Only my friend Newman can pull off this look. And that's with her husband's crisp white oxford tied in a knot atop her Lilly capris. Sure, it's kinda sexy to wear your husband's shirt after a quickie, but keep it contained to your own home. Most women don't look so chic in oversized menswear. You'll find some lovely white shirt options at Boden. Or Target. Or Old Navy. Just wear one sized and cut for a woman. Promise you won't go all 80's on me and pair your husband's shirt with black leggings.

Anything with licensed characters. Even Bird and Deal don't wear Pooh or Nemo on their clothing. Certainly grown women should not either. It's bad enough that they make diaper bags emblazoned with that crap. Leave Minnie Mouse on your kid's lunch box where she belongs. I find it ridiculous that the Disney Store even has an adult apparel category.

For the flattering but ridiculous Momwear category:
Rock and Republic jeans, kitten heels, and a Stella McCartney top...at the park. Clearly these women don't get down in the sandbox with their kids. High fashion is not for play dates. Save the Lucky Magazine getup for date night. Your kids deserve machine washable garb if your time with them is indeed quality. And PS, get over your big bad self.

Form, function, and fashion are not mutually exclusive.

What other mom apparel horrifies you? What should we add to the Treaty?

Find your own swan.

Overheard at the dentist's office:

"Why are you scarfing down lunch now? I thought you went out for lunch. Where you been?"

"I go tanning everyday at lunch. I'm dating this new guy who says he doesn't like me pale so I tan now."


WHHHAAAAAATTTTT THE F*%#?! I almost fell out of my seat, but I feared dropping People magazine, and I really, really needed to finish reading about Reese and Jake.

Now listen here: Dump his sorry, hairy ass right now. Text him. Email him. Write it in graffiti on a city bus. Stop taking his calls. Delete his messages. And then tell the whole world about what an A-rated prick he is.

Then go take a good look in the mirror. One arm on opposite shoulder and squeeze. Self-hug, honey. Then hug those little boys of yours and realize what an amazing creature God made you. Embrace your beauty and teach your kids to value people from the inside out. I'd roll over in a bin of snakes if Bird and Deal ever made a woman feel like she needed to lie in a bed of cancer rays to be worthy. The shame.

No woman, or man for that matter, but I'm dealing solely with women's self esteem issues here, should be made to feel like she needs to change for a man. (Fellow X-chromosomes make us feel bad enough.) "He does not define your self worth!" I wanted to scream. I was seething inside. And I wish she was too rather than accepting such nonsense as fact. An order, even.

We have enough screwed up messages telling us to be thinner yet curvier, erase those pores, smooth away that cellulite, pucker those lips, whiten those teeth, lift those boobs, carve away that belly. And let's not forget the photoshopping going on to make us think our hair should be a shiny mane strong enough to tie a barbell into it. We're turning into a nation of expressionless, Botoxed, tucked, bleached, blown out Stepford Hos.

Stop the madness. We are all victims of fashion, me included. But I make my own calls. I recently bought a spring little Lilly dress for a wedding rehearsal dinner in Florida with a resort casual dress code. What's more perfect than Lilly for such an affair? Unlike Mac Daddy, the uniform of khaki pants and a collared shirt wasn't going to work for this fashion maven seeking an outfit that would never meet playground sand.

So I try on my new dress, and here's Mac Daddy's comment: "I like the dress, just not on you."

Guess what, I wore it anyway. And for the record, I got a jillion compliments. Between you and me, I think Mac Daddy didn't like the dress because it wasn't clingy enough to show me off to his buddies whose wives aren't MILFs. Had he articulated such a thing, I would have worn a burlap bag emblazoned with "I'm a hottie in my own mind."

Confidence, ladies. We've earned it. Guard it vehemently. Preach it.

Sock it to 'em.

To the hyper woman at Helios this afternoon who was worked up about how quickly she's aging: Get over it. It beats the alternative. I'll take some gray hair and wrinkles over a pine box or copper patina urn any day.

And here's a tip that I won't even charge you for. Ditch the Christmas socks. It's March 19 for criminy's sake! And by the way, holiday theme socks are a bad, very bad, idea (unless you're a preschool teacher, of course, but even those should be donned at the appropriate holiday). The wacky little red socks peppered with Christmas trees and stars ain't helpin' you look any younger. Or cooler. Or hipper. Or sassier.

Happy Feet

It's no secret that I love shoes. I even dream about them. Seriously, one of my frequent dreams is that I open up my extraordinarily large, organized closet to find umpteen boxes of new shoes. Stacked high in clear Rubbermaid boxes and labeled with my new label maker. I delight in my options and try on everything in a frenzy to decide what to wear. It sucks waking up realizing that I'll be donning flip flops or cowboy boots...again.

I equally love shoes for Bird and Deal, even though they want to wear sneakers everyday. Apparently Mac Daddy told them those are the "fast" shoes so anything else I buy doesn't cut the mustard. We will be flying with the kids this summer so sneakers are not an option for expediting an already lengthy security regimen. With my luck, the boys will be fiddling with the laces, creating knots that Salvatore Sarno couldn't untie. Bird is particularly adept at screwing up his laces since he's in the I-want-to-tie-my-own-damn-shoes mode.

In walk Toms Shoes.

These canvas slip ons are as cool as Vans of yore but serve a higher purpose. For every pair you buy, Toms' donates a pair to a child in need. That means that by one simple act of buying shoes (!) that you'd buy anyway, you are doing a good deed. Is there any better motivation to shop?! That's a justification even I haven't used yet. Trying to ignite the economy one Amex charge at a time is a ploy that's not working on Mac Daddy, but even he can't argue with Toms.

The shoes are way cool in a hunky surfer kind of way. The boys can put them on themselves, a real time saver in the security jungle. Based on available sizes, only Deal can sport the Toms. Bird will undoubtedly get jealous, meaning that I'll be shooting off a note to Blake Mycoskie asking him to stock larger sizes. And don't think for a second that I won't be ordering a pair for myself too.

Note that this, like my other unsolicited endorsements and opinions, are unpaid. I'm simply sharing the wealth of knowledge that I garner from shoe surfing.

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

Ladies, we spend so much time shopping, dieting, primping, plucking, shaving, exfoliating, taping, tucking, concealing, glossing, flossing, painting, teasing, curling, brushing, waxing, poofing, and toning. Why, when you work so hard to look so good, would you ruin it with a bad, bad case of VPL? It's plain inexcusable.

This one's for the fabulously dressed woman I saw at Uniquities this morning. She was a knockout until I saw her from behind. No amount of riches can make a trendy, high fashion outfit look good when you're sporting VPL. I'm pretty sure Phillip Lim would have been aghast. I beg you, ladies, invest in a full length mirror. And use it.

An Age Appropriate Easter

Easter is fast approaching. That means cute (matching, natch) outfits for Bird and Deal. This was an easy task when the boys were gurgling, swaddled infants with rolls galore and delectable chubby cheeks. At 45 and 35 pounds and approaching the limits of the height charts, they no longer look cute in smocked john johns with bunnies and posies embroidered. The whole one piece outfit is no longer an option with the torsos on my kids. Despite their extraordinarily long torsos, there is no way in hell you'd catch me dressing my boys in frou frou garb. They are boys afterall, not babies. And certainly not sissies. ..not that there's anything wrong with that.

There has been a permanent ban on Little Lord Fauntleroy clothing at Chez Dirt & Noise. There comes a time for every mother (I'm not excluding fathers, but let's face it, they would throw the kids in a paper sack with holes cut out for head and arms and call it a day), to come to grips with the fact their boy babies turn into big boys. Rambunctious, rough and tumble, BOYS. Moms need to stop shopping at stores like Mommas Boy Clothing once the kid can feed himself solid food with an utensil of any kind, fingers included. Let's be real, it is highly unlikely that I would ever shop at a store called Mommas Boy Clothing at all. Folks need to quit making this stuff larger than a size 2T, lest those boys get the snot kicked out of them when Momma's watchful eye strays.

Dressing Bird and Deal in traditional Easter attire would just make them look ridiculous, akin to the mother of a high school classmate I recall who wore mini skirts and anklets with spiky heels in 1985 because it was all the rage among teenage girls. She wore such a getup thinking she looked young and hip. In reality, she looked old and dreadful. Costumed, even. I am now as old as she was then, and you wouldn't catch me in any of the crap teenage girls are wearing these days. Another reason I'm glad to have sons! Those of you with daughters have uber fabulous options for Easter attire now, but wait until those girls want bling on their too tight shirts and cutesy words across their bottoms. Will someone please quash this trend?

Now the quandary is how to dress the boys appropriately for Easter photos without knee socks, saddle shoes, and a peter pan collar? Last year was freezing so we made do with madras pants and sweaters...I couldn't wrangle them into the white bucks I bought so those still sit anew in the closet. I'm going to cram their little (or not so little) feet into those shoes for a photo opp this year. At this rate, it might be the only Easter garb they wear.

When will it Spring?

This time of year makes me antsy. The way I feel about spring is the way Bird and Deal feel for the weeks, no months, thanks to marketing, leading up to Christmas. I'm not anxious to open the wrapped loot under the tree. I just want to free my feet. Spring marks pedicure season, which means sandal season. I don't need an excuse to buy shoes, but the turn to warmer days is a pretty damn good one.

I'm just itching to rip off my socks and boots and sport some cute little wedge sandals with a flirty sundress or don flip flops with madras shorts and a tank top. Sweaters, coats, tights and the whole ilk of winter wear are so confining. I hate layers. I hate coats. I hate shivering. Chattering teeth is so unbecoming. I left 10 years of frozen snot and icy eyelashes behind when we moved from the midwest 6 years ago. I miss the novelty of snow but not enough to ever go back.

I remember waiting and waiting and waiting for spring in Minneapolis. March would march right by in a whirl of snow. April showered us with cold rain and ice. May flirted with spring, but winter kept her gloved grasp tightly on the thermometer. June brought a glimpse of spring so brief that it really just melded into summer like two colors of Playdoh squished together. I felt like Margot in the Ray Bradbury story "All Summer in a Day," just waiting to feel the warm rays of sun on my toes. That story still wrenches my heart. I will read it to my boys one day to illustrate the utter cruelty that bullies can inflict. It is a sunny, albeit chilly, day as I write this. I shudder even now to think of Margot.

Spring fashion brings out the best in us (see me jockeying for another excuse to shop?). No more hiding that spare tire under a puffy vest and Irish knit sweater. Show off those gams you've been working on all winter! Be proud of the shoulders you've sculpted! Shed those constricting clothes! Exfoliate! Wear blue eyeliner! Paint your toenails! I don't know about you, but my toes are ready for a brush of I'm Not Really a Waitress. Red toenails simply make me happy. Let me clarify, my own red toenails make me happy. I'm not much into other people's feet. But you know as well as I do, that like well groomed brows, polished toenails look waaaaayyy better than the colorless mess they are unadorned.

Spring colors rejuvenate us all, adding a kick in our step. And I'm not just talkin' fashion hues. I am stockpiling recipes to try with the new bounty of vegetables our farmers' market brings. Strawberries! Swiss chard! Lettuces and greens galore! The drab colors of winter's root vegetables give way to produce's version of the Crayola box of 64.

Bring on spring. Its glorious food and fashion are beckoning.

Do you take (insert name here) to be your husband?

Mac Daddy and I enjoyed a glorious weekend away...sans kids! Thanks to Nani and Aunt Ginny, we were able to go to Florida to see our friend Chris wed his one true love. Chris is quite possibly the nicest human being on the planet. Not in that he's funny looking with a crooked nose and too full upper lip kind of way. He's actually just genuinely nice. And awfully attractive. I mean it. Cute. Downright hot even. He and his bride make a lovely couple indeed. You almost expect to see them as wedding action figures atop every lemon chiffon cake in every hotel ballroom in America.

We all know that weddings host a colorful cast of characters. Only an airport departure gate affords better fodder for the Olympic sport of people watching. This wedding was in Tampa, providing different color than the chicken dance Midwestern receptions, preppy Palm Beach weddings, and stiff British affairs I am used to attending. Tampa offered a certain fromage factor that I hadn't expected. Some of the cocktail dresses were skimpier than the tankini I've resorted to wearing since my stomach never regained its pre-baby tautness (at least according the modicum of hotness that I think is required to be appropriate for human eyes at the beach). I have dangly earrings longer than one chick's dress. To top it off, she had Crystal Gayle hair, and I kid you not, the hair was as long as the hemline.

I can't comment on the male guests because I can't say I noticed them. A bunch of suits and shiny shoes. No white socks or zoot suits that I noticed. It's strikes me as silly that the E! fashionistas even bother with best and worst dressed men from the Oscars. Black tux. White shirt. Shawl collar. Vest. Armani. Dolce and Gabbana. Whatever. George Clooney in a tux is the exception. HOT. HOT. HOT.

The wedding gents looked resplendent in their tailored-to-order Men's Wearhouse penguin suits. The bridesmaids were downright superb. First of all, the girls were lovely. Really lovely. The bride must really, really love those friends for choosing a dress with a universally flattering cut and color that the women can actually wear again without screaming, "I wore this in a wedding once, but the bride promised I could get more use out of it, and dammit I will!" It goes without saying that the bride was perfection. No back fat or cottage cheese arms spilling out of that fitted lace sheath gracing her trim figure. Quite the opposite as she looked divine.

I was a good 12 years older than any of the women I befriended. 12 YEARS. A generation apart. They were suckling newborns when I was sporting purple hair and lace tights a la Cyndi Lauper. Nonetheless we had a blast yucking it up, but I fear that at the end of it all they'll remember me as the old drunk chick who was trying so pathetically hard to be young despite a pending 40th birthday. Maybe the fact that this was only our fourth time away from our children (Ever!) was all too apparent. Funny how weddings bring out the immaturity in us, while marriage is one of life's biggest marks of maturity. Blame the open bar for that irony.

One touching exchange I was privy to by sheer happenstance was during the ceremony when the bride's mom reached her hand behind her and found the bride's father's hand rest in hers for a tender moment. The clasp was longer than a heartbeat but shorter than a lingering grasp. You see, the bride's parents are divorced and remarried. In that moment they shared their love and pride for their daughter, and that transcends all. My parents too are divorced, and I can guarantee that there has never been so much as a handshake since their split ages ago. I'm pretty sure that apart from conceiving me and my brother, there was no hand holding or embracing going on. All that baggage makes for shaky ground when it comes to my own marriage and raising my boys.

All in all, the trip was SO worth it (and not just because Mac Daddy and I could sleep past 8:00, enjoy the decadence of room service, and eat dinner later than our usual 5:30). We made new friends, laughed at the mating rituals that I don't miss partaking in, and luxuriated in wine, cafe con leche, and lots of laughs.

A memorable moment was when young, handsome Grant was questioning taking hitting-on-the-ladies advice from bald Dave and grayed Brandon (both of whom are handsome guys themselves). We got the inside scoop on air traffic control from a guy who's served two terms in Iraq and is poised for a third. One highlight was the 2-year old ring bearer who was adorable in his mini tux, though he was totally uninterested in bearing any rings. He was a champ despite staying up waaaaaayyy past his bedtime all weekend. When he was approaching meltdown mode I could have lent a helping hand...but I didn't. I was enjoying my time away from Bird and Deal too much to step in to manage someone else's toddler. Go ahead, call me selfish. You know you'd shirk the duties too.

And then there were the Ivy Leaguers who could be spotted the proverbial mile away. No uncharacteristic boozing going on at their table, only erudite conversation and quiet lulls. Meanwhile our table next to them was full of friendly bickering, catty conversation, and wine sloshing. The Ivy Leaguers were PhDs who left before the band played the last song. I guess there's a reason those guys are so smart.

Lastly, the minister was the big surprise hit of the weekend. She was earnest and fun, mind you, but damn, she was the most brazen, snappy woman of the cloth I have ever encountered! The Birkenstocks threw me for a curve. She was so candid and free spirited with Amstel Light in hand. I expect I'll never again discuss the topics of lost virginity or homosexuality with a minister. Hats off to her for being human!

Mac Daddy and I have vowed to take more time away from our kids. We came home feeling refreshed. We've been back for two days and haven't lost our patience, temper, or car keys once. We realize that we missed our silly family rituals and appreciate each other so much more than when we were in the midst of our Sisyphus life. It's the familial, group hug version of absence-makes-the-heart-grow-fonder-sex. G-rated, of course. And don't even think about bursting my bubble.

Happy Endings, as Neil Diamond says!

His Glass Slippers

"I want to wear my Polliwalks EVERY SINGLE DAY! WAAAAAHHHH WAAAAHHHHH WAAAAAAAHHH!!!!!" -Deal

A ringing endorsement from Deal, who doesn't seem to care that his frog Polliwalks will be a tish cold in 40 degree temps. Even with socks (Gasp!). He has given in (FINALLY) and agreed to wear them indoors. All the time. Even to bed. It's pretty sandy in those sheets.

I am firmly against the socks and sandals look but make amends for Polliwalks (except on 40 degree days). The granola fools who wore itchy wool socks from the venerable L.L. Bean and Tevas in college were all, "Hey man, relax. Save the manatee. Pass the bong, dude. I'm soooo fucked up. Dylan is like, so cool. He totally gets me. And, hey you! Yeah, YOU! Get your hands off my BMW!" Conformity and Hypocrisy at their best.

At least Deal's socks are not black, pulled up to his calves with sock garters steadfastly in place, and scrawny chicken hair legs bowleggedly walking around like the geezer getting off the Holland America tour bus in Tampa. The flame will indeed be extinguished if Mac Daddy sports that get up in his old age. I fully plan on embarrassing my children, but not through how I dress.

http://polliwalks.com/

Rules to Live By

As a Rule...

I don't get my haircut at places where all the stylists are wearing Crocs.

I don't let anyone who looks like she's wearing make up give me a makeover at the Bobbi Brown counter.

I never dated a guy whose butt was smaller than mine.

I eat dessert every night (after the boys go to bed!).

I don't wear holiday themed sweaters, jewelry, or shoes.

I refuse to carry a diaper bag that looks like one.

I stick to stylish ensembles that work on playdates with the boys' friends or mine.

I make my kids eat food at the table. Water or milk in a lidded cup is the exception.

I consider myself a MILF...if I don't, no one else will.

I drink red or white depending on my mood or what's available, not based on what the wine snoots say.

I stay far, far away from the Hudson jean wearing, blinged out cell phone chatting, Burberry diaper bag toting, Prada loafer clad moms at the park. Ditto for their uber-smocked children who are still wearing Keds bumpers at age 5.

I read books. Real books. Like the kind without pictures, cardboard pages, or cellophane protective covers.

I serve two servings from the fruit and vegetable food group at dinner every night.

I make sure our family eats dinner together every single day. At the table. With no TV. No toys. No phone. No Crackberry.

I never vote Republican. EVER.

I embrace progressives, but really wish the earthy types would shave their legs and pits and bathe once in a while.

I take unposed photos of my children to document their myriad expressions of pure joy, utter defeat, and brotherly love.

I don't drive a minivan. No MILF does.

I buy myself fresh flowers for no reason. If I don't, only my dad will...twice a year anyway.

I surround myself with people who are smarter, funnier, handier, and kinder than I am.

I don't camp.

I don't like to touch nature. I just like to admire it from a porch with a Mojito in hand.

I don't stay in hotels that don't have internal hallways.

I don't let my boys go to school, or anywhere for that matter, in dirty clothes.

I carry Purell with me everywhere and use it incessantly.

I stash Chapstick in every purse, tote bag, glove compartment, drawer, and pocket I have.

I take Bird and Deal on an adventure of some kind or another every day.

I don't tolerate stupidity. Dumb people ruin everything.

I don't download music unless my friend Tony has endorsed it. Here's where you'll find him: http://www.croutonboy.typepad.com/

I play regular music in the car. I would crash if I had to endure some singalong children's chorus singing Barney faves. I am getting ill just thinking about it. There's no reason the kids can't enjoy Jimmy Buffett (minus "Why Don't We Get Drunk and Screw" of course), the B-52s, and the Beatles.

I don't kiss Mac Daddy if he isn't clean shaven. If I do, I break into massive hives. Trust me on this. Odd but true.

I don't buy shoes or jeans that hurt. Looks above comfort is a crappy way to live.

I slather on sunscreen. On myself. On my kids. Mac Daddy is more resistant to it than a 2-year old, and he's the one who's so white he's clear.

I leave painfully long, blabbering voicemail messages because the machine is a captive audience.

I don't take sleeping aids, though I haven't slept a straight seven hours in about 18 months now.

I have hardwood floors in my house.

I'm going to see my friends Shan and Chris at least once a year. Our boys became fast friends on our last visit to Minneapolis so I can't deny them that. Plus, Chris and Deal share a birthday, and Mac Daddy and Shan share a birthday. Our fates and friendship are inextricably intertwined.

I am verbose.

Polliwalks Rock!

Bird was given a chance to try out some fabulous new shoes from the clever folks at Polliwalks. I'm talking sizzlin' cool shoes. Bird slid them on as soon he ripped open the package and practically hasn't taken them off since. This is the kid who takes off his shoes and lines them up in the mud room before the door behind him is even closed. He doesn't see the need for shoes at all, which makes me wonder who his real mother is. Bird feels like a million bucks in his Polliwalks. And boy, you oughta see a four-year old strut his stuff. He picked the Gator because of the menacing teeth, so I suppose that ups the coolness factor (and his testosterone level).

The cool thing about Polliwalks is how freakin' fun they are. There are four different animal styles to choose from, Gator, Ladybug, Frog, and Duck, with more in the works. The design is adorable, the colors tasty, and the price is so great that there's no way Mac Daddy can bitch about how much I spend on shoes (wait a sec, he only bitches about how much I spend on my shoes). The coolest thing on the Polliwalks is the tread. Each animal footprint leaves a different impression.

Stomp in puddles!
Sashay through the sand!
Squish in the mud!
Strut all over the wet cement in front of the neighbor's house!

Leaving a trail of where you've been has never been so fun. I, the neatnik OCD mom that I am, even let, no, ENCOURAGED, Bird to trail through the mud yesterday. Just so we could see the Gator prints. We were cracking up at the sheer novelty of it. The best thing is how easy is was to clean up the shoes. Some water, a spritz only, and they're good as new (well, granted they are new). Bird ran downstairs this morning and put on his Polliwalks rightaway and couldn't wait to show them off to the kids at school. I have a feeling we'll be the proud owners of a shoe menagerie this summer. You too can get them at http://polliwalks.com/.

Don't think for a minute that these are Mock Crocs. Banish the thought. Polliwalks are a whole different animal (pun fully intended). I succumbed to the Crocs last year but never found them to be anything more than a utility, easy on, easy off, easy to clean. Polliwalks are all those things and cute to boot. Form, function, and fashion are not mutually exclusive in my world.

Kids shoes should promote a life of being footloose and fancy free. We'd all have a bit more whimsy in our world and spring in our instep if we sported Ladybugs on our tootsies too.

Needless to say, I hopped online and ordered Deal a pair of the Frog Polliwalks. He's gonna be one hoppy little boy.

Hip Afterall

While I was zipping up my tall red boots this morning, Bird remarked:

"You're groovy, Mommy."