Archive | April, 2013

Panties in Public

24 Apr

There are some days when I absolutely love having my blog. It gives me a place to rant and rave, to practice my writing chops and it makes me feel less alone in the Mommyhood.

Today, I hate that I have a publicly read blog. My top search term for people who found my blog online was:

That doesn’t make me happy. I refuse to imagine what those people were looking up when they accidentally found the introspective overwhelmed Mom from Beverly Hills.
I usually think its pretty amazing that I have followers from all over the world. I get to connect with people that I would otherwise never meet.
But, it’s times like these when I’m reminded that not everyone is good. Especially when I am laying it out into cyberspace and just praying my stories end up in the right hands.
I’m not going to ever stop writing publicly because of the few that are not here to read my fantastically informational, not to mention hilarious stories ;)
I will admit, today I was reminded that I made a decision by having this blog for all the world to read, and I hope it was the right one.



My Imaginary Magical Nook

22 Apr

I dream of one day having my own little writing spot. Somewhere in the house that is just for me and the little things that make me happy. A cozy daybed maybe or a gigantic overstuffed grandfather chair. Some warm blankets and an unobstructed view of anything that isnt man made. I dont care if its a tree, the ocean, a field, or a swamp. As long as I’m not gazing out at brick, stucco, plastic or fiberglass then it works for me.

I can’t exactly imagine the details of my little nook. The colors are not that clear and the styling isnt precisely one way or another. What is vivid about my imaginary space is the way it feels.
It feels safe and warm, the womb of my home. The place where I can show my stripes and fly my flag without having to think twice. It is my space alone, just me and my words, whatever they may be at that very moment.

There are obviously going to be rules for my writing fantasy spot;

1. No children allowed.
2. No exceptions to rule #1. When I am in my spot I am invisible, even to wounded whining offspring.
3. No perfume. Too much perfume makes me sick. Other people’s strong perfumes are like noise pollution. Every guy blasting Megadeth out of his car with all the windows down thinks it sounds great. Every girl drowning in Flowerbomb thinks she smells delightful. They are both wrong and both not allowed in my nook.
4. Nobody can read my writing unless I specifically say, “Could you please read this and let me know what you think?” If you don’t hear those exact words, then do not read my work. yes, its controlling, but it’s my pretend writing spot so I can do that if I want to.
5. There has to be a walls of books. Books make me happy. Especially the books from my childhood. They let me escape, they help me to dream, books make me absolutely have to write. A book and a kindle or iPad are not the same. An illustrated hardcover Children’s book is a magical thing. My nook must have lots of them.

Until my secret hideaway can become a reality, I will have to make do with what I’ve got. I currently write from my car, my living room, the tiny toddler chairs in my kitchen, my bed, my closet floor, and I have been known to lock myself in the bathroom to get a little writing done.

This post was written from my dining room table. Definitely not a magical and serene spot, but I guess it did the trick.





What do I tell them about Boston?

17 Apr

As a Mom, I pretty much go with my gut most of the time. There are situations where I do research and talk to experts, but I would say I’m a touchy feely do what feels right kinda parent.

Yesterday, as my six and a half year old and I walked back to the car after picking her up at the front gate of her school, she dropped a bomb on me.

“Mommy, there was a Marathon in Boston and somebody killed an eight year old with a bomb, did you know that?”

At that moment my instinct was to tell her that it wasn’t true. I wanted to tell her that people don’t kill eight year olds, that children don’t ever die before their time, and that the world is a completely safe place for you to grow and play. I knew that telling her those lies might put a band-aid on the situation for now, but it would eventually rear its ugly head when she learned the truth from someone else.

I took a deep breath and winged it like I have never winged it before:
“Yes, baby I saw what happened in Boston on the News. A bomb exploded and a little boy was very hurt and he died. Nobody knows yet why this has happened and everybody is trying to figure out all the details. It is a very sad thing to hear about.”
There we go, that should squash it… I should have known better.

“Mommy, why would somebody kill a child? How does a bomb kill you? Did he die at the hospital? Did he have brothers and sisters? What grade was he in? Is that gonna happen to me? How far is Boston? What are his Mommy and Daddy doing now? Are the police gonna catch the guy? Can I watch it on the news? Did you tape it? What did he look like?


It didn’t look like a child psychologist was going to appear at that very moment and apparently I’m the adult in the situation, I went through her list one by one and answered her queries. I spared the details and If I honestly didn’t know the answer, I just told her so. At the end of the longest 10 minutes of my week, she seemed satisfied with my explanations.

The only question we both had at the end was, Why? How could I tell her why some people hurt other people on purpose, even if they are innocent children? I don’t even understand that part of life yet and maybe I never will.
I told her that some people, not many, only a very very few are just bad, there goodness is gone and hurting other people is easy for them. You are surrounded by love and people who want good things for you, you are safe, I am watching you, I promise.

Then she looked at me with those sparkly perfect green eyes and asked, “Then why didn’t that little boys Mommy at the Marathon watch him and keep him safe?”

I pray for an end to this type of violence. I hope I never have to have a conversation like this with my child ever again.



Pin Me Up, Beam Me Up or Shut Me Up

15 Apr

Apparently, I am not your typical Beverly Hills Housewife, whatever that means?! So many judgements and stereotypes out there. Life is hard enough people, can’t we just live and let live?
Here’s my take on all of this:

I have spent most of my life pole vaulting back and forth between two extremes that don’t seem as if they could exist within the same person. I am either trying to live perfectly by the rules or breaking every rule possible.
It has taken me all the way up until now, this very moment actually, to realize that I am not truly one way or the other and I don’t have to be.

I am a nice Jewish Beverly Hills Mother of 3 who cares deeply about her children. I obsess over what they eat, how they feel, where they go to school, how they sleep, and most of all do they know how cherished and amazing they are? I buy organic food when I can, I sing lullabies in Hebrew, I make sure that there are clean Princess and Cars underwear to be worn every single morning of every single day by those tiny little tushies.

I also like to drive fast and listen to piercingly loud music. I have a definite weakness for pin up girls and that whole sub culture. I like tattoos. I don’t have any, but never say never. I have no problem swearing if it helps get my point across. I have recently discovered that it is not only okay to take care of my body inside and out, but it is necessary.
This part might be shocking to some of you- it is possible to be fun, sexy, flirty, smart, a mother and a woman all at the same time.
I won’t delve into where I think these limitations and stereotypes have stemmed from, we would be here all day for that, and I have kids to pick up at school in an hour.

I do my best to never break the law. I do my best to live by the ten commandments. I am also doing my best to have a happy, fulfilling and meaningful life. I do not have a Beverly Hills Housewife handbook and even if I did I highly doubt it would be on my nightstand.

If I break a few rules along the way or offend some people, that is something I can live with.


As always, feel free to comment, especially if I have offended you ;)


The Terrible Two’s can Kiss my A** !

9 Apr

ImageToday, the twins turn 3 years old.

We survived the terrible two’s times two plus an older handful of a sibling. I’m not going to say that it was easy. It has been exhausting, anxiety ridden, and quite miserable some of the time.

The moments in between the screaming, fighting, hitting, biting, tantruming, fevers, vomiting, and food throwing have been such sacred occasions that I am given enough strength to just keep going.

Every night, after I tuck them into their toddler race car and princess beds, and say goodnight and re-tuck them in and give 50 more kisses and double check for MAWNSTERSSSS IN THA CLAWWWSET, they finally settle down and I can hear them talking to each other.

It usually goes something like this :

TR: Brother are you sleeping?

JH: No, I no sleeping. What you doing?

TR: You want to be my bestest friend?

JH: If we place race cars then ok tomorrow.

TR: Goodnight Brotha

JH: Stop talking, I sleeping over here.

That is what keeps me from running away from the chaos and noise. That little conversation gives me what I need to make it through another night and insane morning.

My 6.5 year old woke me up this morning at 5am and said, lets go wake the twins, it’s their birthday! I told her if she moved another muscle that she would be in timeout for a week. I’m sentimental and lovey dovey but I’m not insane. At least not yet.

Goodbye Terrible Two’s and hello to the Adorable Well Behaved Sharing Loving Non Biting Potty Trained Sleeping Through the Night THREE’S!



%d bloggers like this: