Some of our favorite kid stuff

Between the two of us, we have four kids. Fortunately for Violet, Daisy’s earlier ride on the Baby Train allowed for product recommendations with some savior-fare when it came time for Violet to breed. We thought we’d give you all the benefit of our experiences. Keep this list handy, as they’re excellent products which might make for valuable baby-shower gifts.

*Disclaimer: All of these products were purchased by Daisy and Violet for the sole intent of making baby and Mommy happy, with no ulterior motives nor incentives on the part of the producer. Any recommendations are made in good faith. Neither Daisy and Violet, nor the manufacturers, are responsible if this shit doesn’t work out for you like it did for us.

Baby Wearing:
Violet: Holy crap. Thank you, Daisy, for gifting your pouches to me at my baby shower. These things are a life-saver! In those first few weeks of Motherhood, I was able to nurse Pterodactyl in them. I was able to wear her and get housework done. The design of the pouch, as opposed to that Baby Bjorn shit, is conducive to sleeping, sitting up, and when the kid is old enough, back-wearing. It supports baby’s noggin in those first weeks of slinky-neck. Even to this day, I can go out in public wearing her to prevent grimy old people from touching my child. On occasion, I even “wear” her to sleep when she’s being extra fussy. The Rockin’ Baby Pouch (www.rockinbabysling.com) is as functional as it is pretty. Our shared pouch is black and white flowers on one side, and all black on the other (reversible!) side, but they come in all sorts of pretty hues. They’re adjustable, so they grow with baby, from cradled position to sitting up to wearing on the back. Even my massive, 6’3 husband wore the baby on the largest setting when she was a newborn. Rock on, Rockin’ Baby!

NIPPLES!:
Daisy: Lansinoh saved my life and boobs. The little purple tube full of happy goop was a balm of love, comfort, and all things good. Chafed, cracked, hurting boobies will love you for liberally applying this stuff. Great point about the gunk is the fact that you don’t have to wash it off to nurse – it’s safe for baby. I would apply a good amount after nursing, even when I wasn’t chapped or cracked – kept “them” healthy and moisturized. Wonderful, wonderful stuff. I also used the Lansinoh disposable nursing pads. They are thin; completely invisible under thin bras and t-shirts, and WOW are they absorbent. Lansinoh has no clue who I am, and they certainly didn’t provide me with anything, I just love them and have fond memories of the comfort their products brought to my udders. (Like, uh, not looking like I was perpetually in a wet t-shirt contest) (www.lansinoh.com)

Baby Feeding:
Violet: Trust me when I say that I’ve run the gamut of baby bottles. When Daisy recommended the Playtex Drop-Ins, I registered for every variation and portion of this bottle set. Unfortunately, Pterodactyl didn’t take to them, and collapsed the nipple. My big brother had used Dr. Brown’s bottles with his two kids, so I tried those next. Let’s just say that there are still some bottle innards somewhere in the bottom of my garbage disposal. Since I don’t have a Ph.D in baby bottle mechanics, I scrapped Dr. Brown’s pretty quickly. I tried the little bottles that came with my Medela, but they turned my kid into The Exorcist, yakking boob milk/formula across the house with projectile aptitudes. That’s when I found Born Free (www.newbornfree.com). Holy smokes, those are fantastic. We started with the glass bottles, and haven’t changed since! The babe couldn’t collapse the nipple. The (uncomplicated, easy-to-use) innards kept her gas-free, and glass is not only environmentally sound, but microwave safe, too.

Diaper Buying
Daisy: Diaper delivery: http://www.amazon.com. Can I get an “AMEN”??? I had three in diapers at once. My kids were good eaters. Due to the fundamental hypothesis of “What goes in must come out”, we went through diapers faster than you can imagine. By the time Handsome was about 4 months old, he, Diva, & Intuitive were all in the same size diaper. That was a happy day for Daisy. I ordered the mega sized box off of Amazon, and when I was a good girl, my mom would send me some as a present. Diapers as presents. Who would have thought that would be the best gift she could send?

Online Shopping:
Violet: I’m addicted to savings. I have a coupon binder, and religiously plan my grocery list to maximize my savings. Now that you know what a crack-head I am, take heed: my favorite sites are the discount ones! I love http://www.zulily.com and http://www.totsy.com. Both sites feature hoity-toity (that’s for you, Daisy’s Ma!) outfits and toys that a humble middle-class person like me would never otherwise be able to afford. The shipping isn’t as fast as, let’s say, Amazon.com, but at these prices, it’s worth the 2-4 week wait.

Corralling Your Kid:
Daisy: The One Step Ahead Superyard was such a great buy. So great in fact that I bought two of them and some extenders, to make a Super-Superyard. I was lucky enough that the layout of two houses I lived in while I needed to wrangle the kids was conducive to having the Superyard around furniture and between walls and furniture. I made a whole secure area and was able to contain kids and toys in a safe environment. Until the kids learned how to chuck their toys over the walls of the jail, anyways.
(Violet edit: I bought this shit, and it was fantastic. Even though my stubborn little Pterodactyl refuses to be caged anymore, the Superyard still serves a purpose: Buddy disconnected the “hexagon” and placed the fencing up against our home entertainment center. Now, the kid can’t turn the volume all the way up on the receiver or whack the PS3.)

Car Safety:
Violet: I know this comes as no surprise, but I absolutely love Pterodactyl’s Britax Marathon 70. It is secure as shit, comfortable for her, and it’ll grow with her until she’s a forward-facing 70 pounder. We never did the infant carrier system; we took her home from the hospital in that car seat. (At 5 lbs, 11 oz, thank you very much!) For those of you like Daisy who enjoy accessorizing, you can buy different seat covers to change up the pattern. Read the safety statistics (http://babyproducts.about.com/od/carseats/tp/topconvcarseats.htm) before you make a choice, but I’m sure you’ll agree that this car seat is the shit.

Cups That Won’t Ruin Your Life:
Daisy: Once my crew was done with sippy cups, I bought a never-ending supply of The First Years Take & Toss cups with lid & straws. Those things are amazing, and pretty indestructible for being labeled as “Disposable” OR “Reusable”. My kids STILL use them, without the lids & straws. They hold 10oz, and can be washed on the top rack in the dishwasher. Fun colors, easy to hold, easy to clean, and hard to spill. Those lids clamp on tight.

So what about you? What baby stuff has made your life easier? Please comment and share the joy with other Mommies. =]

 

© Daisy and Violet 2012. All Rights Reserved.

Why Daisy’s life wouldn’t make a good television show.

My mother, the Mayor, has often said:

“We should have a fucking reality show”

Well, you know, if she used language that crass and stuff.

Which she does. Sorry you misunderstood.

I’ve often found myself agreeing with her, but I’m led to believe that just about everyone I know probably thinks that they should have a “fucking reality show.” Sure, the crap that happens to us is funny. To us.

I doubt that Diva proclaiming

“I want to be a show girl when I grow up”

would translate well to network television. (In my defense, we were watching a cake decorating show where they made a cake for a Vegas show) I’m betting that my father, the “First Husband,”  proclaiming that he wasn’t going to buy her pasties would probably go over like breaking wind in a place of worship. (Like how I made that sound SUPER-DUPER mature??)

We certainly don’t throw fisticuffs often enough, or chairs for that matter.

I’ve never sat down to dinner with Violet, had a few (15) drinks, called her a raving lunatic bitch, and thrown the table at her. Sure, during one of our numerous spats, I’ve thought all those things, but in reality television, there is no think, only DO.

So how about a scripted show based off of little old Daisy’s crazy shenanigans? Let’s see. I am pretty particular about my television viewing. My all time favorites?

• Weeds
• Californication
• Mad Men
• Breaking Bad

Let’s break down why my life just wouldn’t translate into television gold, as these shows have.

I am not a super fuck up with tremendously questionable morals. Sure, I can get a little loosey-goosey in the morality department, but, uh.. within reason.

The main character in all these shows is the head of the family. Where is he or she most of the time? Out selling/buying/making drugs; getting drunk with random ladies/gentlemen, sleeping with random folks, oftentimes on the hood of a car, or in an alley.

I’m the head of my family. Where am I most of the time? Hovering over my children helping them with homework, in the kitchen cleaning or cooking, vacuuming, or doing laundry. After 8 pm; once the kiddos are asleep, you can find me watching my stories.

Moral of the story?

My life wouldn’t make good tv, since…

-Daisy

© Daisy and Violet 2012. All Rights Reserved.

Fun with Texting: 02/28/2012

Don’t Let Violet Around Your Children

Why was Daisy so worried about my foray into Motherhood? Here’s why: I’ve taught her kids a variety of inappropriate shit. Here are a few of my favorite examples.

• Driving in the car one day, we passed a small, yellow school bus. With two four year olds and a two year old in the back seat, I yelled, “Look, it’s a short bus!” For the next several days, the kids would yell “short bus” at every opportunity.
• Don’t know why, but I felt it was necessary to teach Diva, Intuitive, and Handsome the word “tacky.” Boy, did they take to that one! And as evidence of their collective genius, they understood its context, even while in diapers. Daisy reported to me that the following day, as they zoomed around Target, the children pointed to objects and people and screamed, “TACKY!!!” at the top of their lungs.
• My favorite – absolutely, 100% favorite Twins-Plus-One moment – was actually on the day that my dog died. Depressed beyond measure, I decided to pay Daisy’s family a little visit in hopes that some kiddo time would cheer me up. A few days prior, I taught Diva to say, “I am my mother’s daughter” because, well, she is. I was changing two-year-old Handsome’s diaper, and as you all know, you gotta tuck Mr. Winkie into the diaper so it won’t spray piss all over the kid’s clothes. As I was doing this, he fussed and grabbed at his junk. I said, “You wanna tuck your own penis? Go right on ahead.” Out of nowhere, from across the house, Diva yells, “I love to touch the penis! I am my mother’s daughter!” Twenty minutes of hysterical, tear-inducing laughter ensued. And that’s how I coped with the death of my doggie.

© Daisy and Violet 2012. All Rights Reserved.

If it made me laugh, it can’t be THAT bad.

On one of my many jaunts around the world wide web, I discovered a pretty funny blog. One of her posts made me giggle, and I immediately shared it on Facebook. I figured I’d share with you all as well.

Rules for Parents of Daughters

She just gets it.

Death to the fish lips photo!

Enjoy, and raise your daughters to be kick ass women.

 

-Daisy

Why I Quit Breast-Feeding…and that’s OK!

Being Daisy’s Mommy-Apprentice, I knew from the time the sixth pregnancy test showed positive that I was going to breastfeed. I registered for nursing covers and nipple creams. I bought a $300 Medela pump. When my friends who had babies during my pregnancy fell off the Boobie Train, I scoffed. Determination of will, Ladies! I thought. Stick to it! I had learned though the 23871 baby books I read and frequent conversations with my heterosexual life partner that Breast Milk is the Best Milk, and I was damned if my kid was going to be some formula-feeding half-wit. Oh no.

When my kid finally came barreling out of my baby-maker, my world turned upside-down. Latching was difficult, but with the help of various Lactation Consultants (who were grabbing my boobs like I was in a Cancun Wet T-Shirt Contest), we eventually got her on. Hurdle number one, conquered. When the kid wound up in the NICU, the hospital gave me the Spawn of Satan pump to extract some breast milk for my jaundiced munchkin. Fine – I’ll endure some woosh woosh for a couple days. But then, the proverbial shit hit the fan (and no, I’m not talking about projectile baby poop.)

Home with my baby, the struggle to breastfeed continued. In her first few weeks of life, I nearly lost my shit. Post-Partum Depression was rearing its ugly head, but I was going to fight it. No more trips to my shrink, who had pre-pregnancy Violet on a variety of happy pills. This baby was going to receive unadulterated boob milk!

Until my father almost died. The phone call came after yet another sleepless night, pleading with my newborn to feed and sleep. He was in the hospital and in a coma, and there was nothing I could do but sit and wait. With my coping skills stretched unreasonably thin, I battled two demons – that of lowered milk supply, and the depression which was threatening my stable mindset. Two days later, my husband was downsized (even though his bitch of a boss knew very well that he just had a baby!) With Daddy in the hospital and Hubby out of work, I knew I was battling an uphill climb.

I relinquished and went to my shrink. First thing out of her mouth was: “They’ve reclassified your anti-depressants. They are now a Class 4, and they will most certainly enter your breastmilk and effect your baby. If I put you back on them, do you promise to stop nursing?”

My world was crumbling. All I wanted to do was breastfeed my child. We were making gains in the latching/milk supply department. There was a future for my boobs. But my doctor was asking me to choose my mental health over my child’s nutritional health, and I couldn’t handle that shit.

Daisy, my wonderful, rational Siamese Twin, talked me off my metaphorical ledge. She reminded me that a happy mother is a happy baby, and that baby formula is quite nutritious and not detrimental to baby’s development. A depressed, crazy mother, however, was. For the next two days, I pumped and pumped and pumped so my kid could enjoy as much Mommy Juice as possible before I began my meds. The first time I put a pill in my mouth and swallowed, I cried. Ultimately, my kid received breast milk for the first month of her life, between my boobs and my pumped supply.

Switching to formula was the best decision I have made for my family thus far. With Buddy staying home with Pterodactyl, it is much easier on both of us for her to be a formula baby. My regiment of anti-depressants has stabilized my brain, and I’m a happy Mommy. I don’t think my kid would have benefitted from my breast milk if it were diluted with tears, do you?

When people give me shit for choosing to take my kid off the boob, I don’t even flinch. I know it was the best choice for all of us. My kid is brilliant, sweet, and (just to squelch those stereotypes about formula babies) svelte. Mommy is balanced out, and Buddy isn’t calling Daisy up at all hours of the night asking her to comfort and fix crazy Violet anymore. So to all the holier-than-thou breast-feeders (not all breast-feeders, just those with rude comments about my family) who condemn us formula moms for feeding our kid from a bottle, all I can say is: Go Fuck Yourselves.

Epilogue: My daddy is just fine, now. Two scary surgeries and a long recovery later, he’s back to his normal self. =]

© Daisy and Violet 2012. All Rights Reserved.

Daisy’s breastfeeding escapades

By the time I reached the “Extremely Pregnant” phase of my first pregnancy, I decided that breastfeeding would definitely be in my future.  I asked the only person that I personally knew had breastfed for some advice. First words out of her mouth, “It hurts.”  Now, my extreme naïveté sure matched my “extreme” pregnant self. I had expected rainbows, cotton candy, and joy, yet… “It hurts” was what I got.

Quickly followed by, “When they try to tell you it doesn’t, they’re lying.”

She followed that up by saying something along the lines of, “The only thing that saved me for those first 6 weeks was clenching my teeth and reciting the alphabet, and usually by the time the alphabet was done, I wouldn’t want to throw the baby across the room.”  Now, did you just say the basic alphabet, or did you add the whole “next time won’t you sing with me” bit?  Eventually, we got to the rainbows, cotton candy, and joy. Bonding, yadda yadda, sweet, yadda yadda, free, yadda yadda. I never really got to use her advice with the results of that first pregnancy.

Instead, I got to become well acquainted with a human torture device, or as “they” like to call it, “a hospital grade pump.” Spawn of Satan, I say. If you enjoy feeling like Elsie, hanging out in the barn, with her udders on display, I would recommend you invest in one. Now, it did get the job done and my premature twin girls feasted on “booby milk” (hey, only the most accurate of terms here.) for about 8 months before the infernal thing got thrown out the window. (Or returned to the hospital. The rent on that thing was expensive.) Once Diva and Intuitive started  needing me to pump about 60 oz. each per day, my mammary glands protested and went on strike.

Fast forward, albeit not very far in the future, to my son’s birth. Come hell or highwater, I was gonna breastfeed this one until the cows came home; straight from the “tap”, or my name wasn’t Mommy.  Where was I? Oh yeah, birth of child number 3. The two older ones were about 19 months old. I really couldn’t fathom getting up in the middle of the night 87 times and dragging my ass downstairs to make a bottle. I also couldn’t fathom telling two 19 month olds to “sit tight” and not suffocate their newborn brother while I ran to make bottles 87 times a day. Breastfeeding, it would be. It had to be.

So, on that lovely evening that Handsome was wrangled out of me, as soon as the nurses let me, I threw him on the boob. 12 hours later, I was happy I remembered the advice I had recieved some 2 years earlier. I used my judgement and made sure to add “now you know your A, B, C’s, next time won’t you sing with me” at the end. I got a few strange looks from nurses when they’d walk in our hospital room and find the newborn suckling and the “new” mom mouthing the ABC’s. I never filled them in on my secret, I’d rather have them think I was a little crazy.

Sure as sugar, 6 weeks or so flew by, and I was finally able to stop singing myself into submission. After the initial shock to my, uh, lady lumps, everything was smooth sailing. I fed that child whenever, whereever, for FREE! The mall, Disney World, P.F. Changs, it was all good. Surprisingly, I only had a few obnoxious comments. Usually from half-dressed 20 something girls. Listen, chickie, if I can see your thong and half of your ass when you’re in your seat at dinner, don’t fuck with me about feeding my kid, ok?

17 months later, Handsome was all done. He was ready for the bright lights of big boy cups and milk from a jug, instead of from my jugs. My mom, “The Mayor” spent the first couple of nights with us after we weaned, and by golly, when she went in to comfort him when he woke up at his normal nursing hours, he just went back to sleep. The day we stopped breastfeeding was the first night he slept through the night.

With my crew well into childhood, I miss the newborn stage. Does that mean I want to pop out 75 more little darlings? Nah, not at this point. But, uh, if you have a newborn I can borrow for a few hours, let me know. I promise, I’ll keep my boobs to myself.

Oh, and if you’re wondering if breastfeeding can be fun, just ask Violet about the time that I showed her how far breastmilk can fly. Her bathroom mirror was never the same. Don’t let her try to convince you that she didn’t do it when she was breastfeeding Pterodactyl.

-Daisy

© Daisy and Violet 2012. All Rights Reserved.

In the Grand Scheme of Things, I’m Pretty Lame

Every night, my husband and I compete to see who can yell out the answers to Jeopardy clues first. He thinks my favorite part of the game is Final Jeopardy, but I’m going to let you in on a little secret: I relish the personal interviews after the first commercial break. It pleases me to hear the adventurous and quirky anecdotes of the contestants – I can relate to these mini-brainiacs and choose whom I’m going to root for.

The same, brief thought passes through my mind every single night. “What anecdote would I share with the Jeopardy producers for Mr. Trebek to discuss with me?” For a fleeting moment, I realize how uninteresting I am. I’ve never climbed Mt. Everest. I was never class president at an Ivy League university. My mug collection is hardly noteworthy.

In fact, I’m painfully average. I’m a high school teacher, an army wife of five years, and a mommy to a beautiful little girl. I’m also a graduate student and an amateur photographer, but isn’t everybody, these days?

“So, Violet, it says here that you have a baby girl. What’s that like?”
“Well, Alex, being a mother is the most inspiring endeavor I’ve ever undertaken.”

Right. That would make for smashing t.v. I’m sure millions of viewers would be jumping at the bit to see me beat the returning champion after a story like that.

“Violet, it says here your favorite word is fuck. What’s that like?”
“Oh, Alex, it’s the best word ever invented. It’s a noun, a verb, an adjective – I could go on and on!”

That same population for whom the Poly-Grip commercials are intended would just eat that up, don’t you think?

I’m just an average Jane; making my way through this middle class Floridian rollercoaster I call reality. I play with my baby. I cuddle with my husband. I grade papers, watch Weeds on Netflix, and laugh for hours as my cat chases the little red laser up the walls of my kitchen. So why do I deserve your attention? What makes me think you should waste your precious spare time (because we all know you’re not reading this at your desk, pretending you’re really on Microsoft Outlook) reading my thoughts?

Because I’m a certifiable bitch; that’s why. You know those people who suffer some offensive injustice, then spend the next twelve hours rehashing the incident in their minds, thinking of what they should have said? That’s not me. I’m that bitch who said it the first time. While more polite citizens like my dear friend Daisy might smile and bite their tongues when accosted, I’m the ruthless bastard who told the offender where she could shove her ignorant comment. This trait has served me quite well through my brief tenure as a Mommy.
Once, and only once, did someone make the mistake of attempting to touch my pregnant belly without my consent. I was in the middle of my classroom, and a new teacher popped in my room to introduce himself. I extended my hand for a handshake, and he bypassed the gesture and went straight for the bump. I grabbed his wrist, twisted it slightly, and yelled (yes, in front of my high school kids) “Don’t you ever freaking touch me without my permission; you understand that?” I still don’t know if that was the best way to handle the situation. Maybe I should have taken the belly pat and fumed silently. Maybe I should have reported him to my boss. But since I am rather hostile even when I’m not pregnant, that’s what I did.

Back on the couch, the Jeopardy theme song is gearing up for another night of trivia and academic snobbery. I can already tell that I’m going to kick my hubby’s ass tonight based solely on the Single Jeopardy round questions. So what is Alex going to discuss with me after the first commercial break?

“Violet, tell me about the time you almost broke a man’s hand for trying to pat your baby bump.”
“Alex, there’s nothing to tell. It’s simple, really: don’t encroach on my right to be left the fuck alone.”

Getting to Know Our Readers

Now that you know a little about us, we want to know a little about you. To begin, it’s crucial that we know what kind of parenting style you’ve adapted. Vote in the poll below, and feel free to comment!

A Little Q&A

Welcome to Daisy & Violet’s little space on the internets. We figured that we would start off with a small bang. Nothing major, just a little question and answer session with each other. First up is Violet answering questions about me, Daisy.. Then, I answer the same questions about Violet. Check out our Mission Statement and the About Daisy & Violet section to learn a little bit more about us.

Daisy:

What is your favorite aspect of my personality?

Violet:

I love how methodical you are. To an outsider, you might look like a funky soccer mom tossing groceries in her cart, but I know how your mind works. I know you’re evaluating the nutritional content of each food, its price, which child eats that food, which child does not eat that food, and the myriad ways you could prepare it. You evaluate everything with that level of scrutiny: home décor, children’s clothes, books, homework assignments. I strive for your focus and attention to detail.

Daisy:

What could you stand to change about me?

Violet:

This one was hard for me. I was going to say your phone habits (like the fact you don’t return calls as often as I like), but then I had to rescind that because you return calls when your Mommy responsibilities are not pressing. I guess I would change your geographic location, and move you into the house next door.

Daisy:

 Why do you think our friendship has sustained for so long, through so many hurdles?

Violet:

We’re two peas in a pod. We have similar outlooks on life. We are inwardly catty and outspoken, but outwardly polite. We understand one another, and accept the other for who she is.

Daisy:

What makes me an excellent Mommy?

Violet:

What doesn’t make you an excellent Mommy? Your children are polite, intelligent, and bright as fuck. That is 100% nurture (because, as we know, their nature is only 50% you…). You have researched every book you read the kids, every school in your area, every bedtime routine in existence, every meal you plan, and synthesize your information to create a realm of mystical Mommyhood. Your routines are orderly. Your children are the opposite of picky eaters. Your kids treat you, their grandparents, their teachers, friends, aunts, and uncles with respect and reverence. Instead of creating this lifestyle with Nazi regiment, you’re as cuddly and sweet with your kids as the smelliest hippie around.

Daisy:

What do you think my first impression upon strangers is?

Violet:

I think they see you and your funky hair cut, your trendy clothes, and your various tattoos, and think you’re just some trendy Florida soccer mom. They don’t know how deeply your commitment to family and values runs.

Daisy:

What is something our readers might want to know about me?

Violet:

You can get down with some really hard rock music, old-school rap, or dorky Broadway crap and be equally happy.

Daisy:

If you could summarize me in one word, what would it be?

Violet:
Devoted. To Everything and Everyone. (Sorry for the four extra words. I’m nothing if not verbose.)

_______________

Violet:

What is your favorite aspect of my personality?

Daisy:

It never changes. You are who you are, no matter what. Through all the stages of your life, (that I’ve been around for) you’ve always been “Violet”. It’s kind of refreshing to feel like nothing has changed when I speak to you, even though years have passed and life HAS changed.

Violet:

What could you stand to change about me?

Daisy:

I would have to say your love for where you live! What I would give to have you, Buddy, and Pterodactyl closer. Preferably on a family compound, with a bridge connecting our homes.

Violet:

Why do you think our friendship has sustained for so long, through so many hurdles?

Daisy:

Because we want it to. We need each other, regardless of how many stupid fights we’ve had over trivial shit, we NEED each other. We balance each other out. Plus, no one would put up with you like I do, and vice versa. You are the mongolian to my motherfucker.

Violet:

What makes me an excellent Mommy?

Daisy:

To be completely honest, when you surprised me with the news that you were pregnant, I was a little scared. I wasn’t sure how you would react to pregnancy and having a newborn. I thought you might be one of those “Pregzillas” and a super insane worrying mother. You know the one I’m talking about. “Don’t get near the baby until you have washed your hands and put on your hazmat suit” or “No one can touch my sweet angel lovey muffin because we don’t know what germsie wormsies you might have”… The first time I heard you call the Pterodactly “Kid”, I was pretty stoked. You have taken to the mommy thing with ease. I have loved seeing you learn mommy-hood and coming to the realization that all the crap you thought you knew… is… well…. crap. I think the best part about your parenting skills is how relaxed you are. You go with the flow. Knowing you as I know you, that impresses me.

Violet:

What do you think my first impression upon strangers is?

Daisy:

Helllllllo preppy upper-middle class suburban mommy! I mean, seriously, you have a Vera Bradley diaper bag! ❤

Violet:

What is something our readers might want to know about me?

Daisy:

You are a bad ass bitch. You worked full time teaching at an “intense” high school, while pregnant, while going to school for your Masters. Then, you had a baby, complete with crazy delivery and complications, and a baby ending up in the NICU, went back to work soon after and back to school to finish your Masters, without missing a beat, all while being an amazing new mom. I don’t know HOW you did all that. BAD ASS BITCH.

Violet:

If you could summarize me in one word, what would it be?

Daisy:

Committed. You don’t do a damn thing half assed.

Next up, a little something from Violet. You will laugh.

Until next time, I wish you unicorns and rainbows. <3, Daisy