Tag Archives: mommy

Who said you could grow up so fast?

1 Jun

So sometime in the next few days, we will be celebrating some birthdays around here. Diva & Intuitive will be turning 7 years old.

 

Seven.

 

If I had broken a mirror on the day they were born, I’d be free of the bad luck.

 

Looking back, 7 years doesn’t seem like such a long time. Some days felt long, sure, but all thrown together, it’s just a clusterfuck of days and moments and minutes and seconds and memories. There were highs, there were lows. There were diapers. Oh, were there diapers. Sorry, landfills. I contributed quite a bit to the world being full of trash.

 

When I think back to the early days, it kind of feels like it was someone else in a whole different life. Are these two KIDS the same premature babies that couldn’t breathe or eat when they were born? Seriously? They were two mini little baby type things, and now they are, like, human-pseudo-grownups.

 

For real, who let that happen? Who said it was ok for them to sit up, crawl, walk, talk, THINK? I don’t recall giving them the ok to do all this shit. They are self sufficient, free thinkers.. With likes and dislikes, ideas and theories, strengths and weaknesses. I don’t know when these things happened. They are honor roll students, their teachers love them, they have oodles and oodles of friends.. It’s a crazy trip to see them interacting like miniature grown up humans.

 

I find something new to be proud of every single day, and I know I always will.

 

Diva, my brainy little princess, you came into the world squealing, making your presence known. I’m proud to be your mommy, and I can’t wait to see you grow up. Keep writing and reading and imagining things. Keep thinking up crazy “scenes” that you think would make great movies or tv shows. You can do it all.

Intuitive, my sweet little giggling princess, your laugh is impossible to ignore, and one of my favorite sounds. You do things your way, and you are one of the most stubborn people I know – don’t ever lose that. You are amazing and strong-willed, and I can’t wait to see where that takes you in life. I’m always here.

 

With that, I’m gonna go cry in my coffee. Happy tears, because my babies are growing and becoming amazing people… but there will be some sad tears, too.. I’ll never get those days back, and sometimes, I just wish I could.

 

 

Daisy cooks, too.

30 May

Now, I know Violet has been the resident recipe poster, but I can get down with some cooking too. Violet asked me to share a few little tips and tricks that I’ve shared with her, so here you go..

I have great eaters. I really can’t complain, they will eat just about anything. Why? Not sure. Is it luck? Did I expose them to different foods when they were young, via my eating habits & breastmilk? Who knows. Maybe a good combo of both. Even with my great eaters, one of which (Diva) lists raw broccoli as one of her favorite foods, I still like to sneak in even MORE vegetables than they would normally eat.

Funny story, when Diva & Intuitive were about 2 or so, we were grocery shopping, strolling through the produce section, in fact. Diva begins a full on tantrum because she thought I didn’t put broccoli in the cart. Can you imagine this little pig-tailed girl, screaming her little brains out because she thought that mean old mommy DIDN’T get broccoli? The laughter coming from the other shoppers was pretty excellent when they realized that she was yelling for broccoli.

Anyways, “hiding” veggies in meals isn’t a new concept. There are cookbooks written on the subject. These are just some of the things that I’ve done.

Making spaghetti? Using jar sauce? Good shit, go for it. Whenever I make it, I will use a large grater and grate a few carrots, some squash, zucchini, finely cut spinach. Dump the jar of sauce in a big saucepan and dump the veggies in, simmer it all while your pasta is cooking. The veggies will cook down, and be completely unnoticed by even the pickiest eaters. My kids KNOW I do this, and couldn’t care less!

Tacos? Grate some of the same veggies into the meat while you’re cooking it. Same concept as the sauce, noone will notice.

Has your kiddo said no to baby food? Is she ready for the real stuff? Don’t worry. I’m sure you have 8 million extra jars of baby food sitting around, so USE them for your cooking. Dump a jar of carrots into your spaghetti sauce. Any veggie, really. Have some fruit ones? Make your kiddo some PLAIN oatmeal, and put some in the oatmeal.

Sneaking good stuff in is easy. It’s easy, and no one will ever know.

You’ll probably feel kinda bad ass for pulling a fast one on your family.

Any other ways you guys sneak some good stuff in? Let us know!

-Daisy

To the holier than thou. Love, Daisy.

24 May

Dear Holier Than Thou Mothers…

 

I concede. I am obviously not worthy of the title of “Mother.” I fully accept this, and am moving on. (can you feel me rolling my eyes? I am.)

 

In a minute.

 

First, I shall lay out some fresh beats and bust a quick rhyme. (Or I’ll just explain myself. What-the-fuck-ever.)

 

1. Stretch Marks: If I say I have stretch marks, it doesn’t mean I hate my children, and wish I would have adopted so I could keep my svelte 18-year-old body. It means I have stretch marks. Did they appear during my pregnancy? Yes. Do I resent my children for “giving” them to me? No, I resent my genealogy, since that shit is genetic. Following up a comment (or just making a comment) about *YOUR* stretch marks by saying something along the lines of

“My stretch marks are SO worth it, and I wouldn’t trade them for anything, because they show me EVERYDAY that I brought an amazing, spectacular, gorgeous, fantastic, BRILLIANT angel into the world, and saying I don’t like them would be like SACRIFICING MY PERFECT CHILD TO “The Others” on Lost. I LOVE MY STRETCH MARKS.”

Yeah. Soooooooo. I get it. The big ol’ cross on your back is super bright and shiny. I get it. You are MOTHER, hear you roar.

I still think MY stretch marks suck, but, uh, more power to you. You must be a better mother than me.

 

2. The “When I have Children…” People: Do I even NEED to address you crazy asses? I will never meet the imaginary standard you have set. In the imaginary world that you and your imaginary children live in, I’m sure that everything is rainbows and unicorns and skipping through fields of wildflowers, with the scent of fresh jasmine filling the air. There are playdates with other imaginary friends, and children that don’t wet themselves, poop themselves, talk back, refuse to eat, cry incessantly for no reason.. They sleep through the night, from 8pm to 9am. You do everything right.

 

How can I compete with that?

Pop out a few, and then tell me if all your imaginary plans came true. I implore you. Do it.

 

3. The Ones Who Do It All.. and Then Some: Now, these.. Sometimes (most of the time) I just don’t believe them.

No, I don’t think that you can take care of 5 children, home-school them, milk the goats out back, make homemade yogurt, clean your house, take care of the pets, manage a business, do 4 loads of laundry, (in all natural, homemade laundry soap, naturally) sprout your quinoa, read 8 stories to your children, take them to the neighborhood park, then to the YMCA for swimming lessons, then to the library…… ALL BEFORE LUNCH.

Screw you. You’re lying, this doesn’t happen. Your attempts to make us “lesser mothers” feel like shit might work for a while… but eventually, we’ll all realize that you don’t really have your shit together, and you actually throw some Gerber Puffs on the floor in the living room and turn on Spongebob, and then go watch your “stories” on your laptop.

Why lie? Fess up, homegirls.

 

 

4. The Exaggerators: You know the one. That one woman who you see at your Gymboree Music class. The one who tells you about all the advanced shit her brilliant diaper dweller does.

“Sooo.. Is your son walking yet? No? Hmm. That’s weird. Perfectly normal, I’m sure. My little prince is just really advanced for his age. His doctor has even said so. He started walking at 4 months old, canyoubelieveit?! Yeah, so now at 8 months, it’s just amazing, but, well, I don’t normally tell people this, but.. We had his IQ tested. He scored pretty well. I don’t like to brag, but his IQ is 865. Yeah. So, he’s SMART. He started reciting Shakespeare last night. It was amaaaaazing.”

Listen, bitch. Your kid craps his diaper, just like mine did. He isn’t a fucking genius. He didn’t start walking at 4 months old. His IQ isn’t 865. He’s a normal baby. Enjoy him as such, because one, he will wise up and not want to hang out with you, because you suck.

 

 

And with that, I will bid you farewell.

 

For now.

 

I’m going to go wallow in the fact that I’m just not as good as all of you Holier Than Thou moms out there.

Fondly, Daisy.

 

Smelly, Happy Violet

6 May

I’m officially addicted to the gym.

Every morning, before work, I head to the gym at 5:00 am. I do a bit of cardio, then some weight training, before I head to the locker room to shower and dress for the day. Last week, I slept through my alarm and woke up with just enough time to shower and dress before work, and I had to miss the gym. It ruined my whole day: I was irritable and tired because I didn’t get my morning adrenaline rush.

I love my private time at the gym. (And not just because I can shower without a toddler whining in the background.) My work outs put me in touch with my body. I feel every stretch, strain, and ache. I can feel my endurance picking up. I used to hate with a passion dislike running. I would fast-walk on an incline on the treadmill, but if I tried to run, I’d last MAYBE a minute. Maybe. Yesterday, after 30 minutes of high-intensity cardio on the elliptical machine, I headed over to the treadmill for what I thought would be my cool-down. I was bored at my medium walking pace, so I upped the ante and started running. I kept my finger on the speed button, assuming that I’d need to slow down after a minute or so. Three minutes later, I was still running strong. Two minutes after that, I felt a little tired and reduced my speed, but that only lasted a minute or two. I was in awe of myself. Never in my life could I do that before.

In my pre-baby days, I was a gym rat. I had a personal trainer for a while, and I’d go to the gym religiously after work. (Back then, I would sleep until the absolute last minute before I had to get up and go to work. Morning workouts were for early birds and dedicated people, of which I was neither.) The staff all knew me on a first-name basis. I was fit and healthy. (But I still couldn’t run.) When I learned I was pregnant, my OB put me on “pelvic rest” because Pterodactyl hadn’t implanted correctly, and at the top of the No-No List was working out. Once I received clearance to return to my exercise routine, I was so out-of-shape and under-motivated that I just quit. That’s how I managed to gain 51 pounds during my pregnancy; I was a slug. My couch cushions had a better workout than me by simply supporting my fat ass. I’ve been fighting my body all 12 months of the baby’s life to get back into my stylish pre-pregnancy clothes. I’m finally winning.

The gym is my place, during my time. I’m nobody’s mother, wife, teacher, or friend. I’m just me. I can read my Kindle while doing my cardio without interruption. I can focus on my needs entirely, even if it’s just for an hour a day. I sweat, I stink, and I smile.

What do you do when you need “Me Time?” Do you exercise like me? Do you scrapbook/knit/paint? Shop?

An Ode to the Women Who Tolerate Us

23 Apr

Daisy and I were chatting today about friendship.

Well, not ours. We’re not friends; we’re heterosexual life partners.

We were talking about adult relationships with our childhood friends.

You see, Daisy and I each have one  friend who’s survived the murky waters of childhood, adolescence, those nasty teenage years, the rebellious post-high school mess, and adulthood. (Or, as Daisy puts it, “…friends since before I had hair on my twat.”) We call these two women, respectively, our best friends. And they are. But they almost weren’t.

Daisy’s Pre-Pube-Hair buddy surfaced in early elementary school. They went to middle school together, although she attended a different high school from Daisy and me. Even though this woman went to college several hundred miles away from Daisy, they maintained their friendship. Daisy confesses that their friendship endured some tumultuous times when their life paths drifted apart: Daisy jumped on the Weeds-esque suburban housewife train, while this woman pursued her education and then her career. Single and childless, she has made dramatically different life choices from Daisy.

My childhood BFF and I met in fifth grade. We played dolls together, took dance lessons together, and attended middle and high school together, only to part for undergrad. This woman has always been my “Jimminy Cricket,” so to speak. Unlike most people, I literally have an angel and a devil living on my shoulders, whispering suggestions into my ear. If Daisy is the devil, this woman is, and always was, the angel. I would skip school with Daisy during the day, then go to this girl’s house at night to cram for an AP exam. She and I are on similar life paths: we’re both wives and mothers, we have the same levels of education, and we’re in the same profession. In spite of all our commonalities, our friendship entered a decline.

Why does this happen, Daisy and I mused. How can we share so much history with these women, and harbor so much pure love for them, but not have the same quality of friendship we once shared? In Daisy’s case, she speculates that their diverging life plans kept them too preoccupied with different priorities to make time for one another. Between me and my Six Foot Conscience, we simply became too wrapped up in the day-to-day banalities of teaching, motherhood, and social obligations to remember to pick up the phone. These are simply excuses, and it doesn’t justify allowing our friendships to lapse like a magazine subscription you swear you’re going to renew.

Recent events have thrust these women back into our lives. Daisy and her friend have reconnected over – you guessed it – babies. This woman recently became an Auntie, and Daisy guided her through “What To Expect When Someone You Love Is Expecting.” The eternal expert on everything baby-related, this woman wisely turned to Daisy for information and guidance as she welcomed a new diaper-clad person in her life. My best friend and I had a bit of a spat, at the end of which we decided the only resolution was to make a commitment to one another to talk regularly (daily, if we could hack it with our conflicting schedules.) We realized that our friendship was in deep shit if we didn’t reach out to one another, and have upheld this bargain so far.

Daisy and I are learning how much work adult friendships are. Sure, fun-loving, personable girls such as Daisy and I have no problem making “friends” at work, play groups, or among other parents of children the same age as ours. But in a phase of life when one barely has time to take out the trash and scoop the litter box, do we really have the where-with-all to dedicate to new acquaintances? We agreed that it is crucial for us to nurture these respective friendships, if not for preserving their longevity, then because these women have loved us at our worst.

Tell us about how you’ve had to work to maintain important friendships in your life. We want to know we’re not curmudgeons. =]

The Fairy of Teeth.

18 Apr

The tooth fairy has been pretty busy at our house for the past long while. Collectively, Diva & Intuitive have lost 11 teeth.  7 of those are Diva’s, 4 are Intuitive’s.

Some have been bloody, some have fallen out while they’re eating. Some have been yanked out by a grown up, some have been yanked out by the owner.

All 11 have been an exciting event, complete with a picture to text message to a handful of relatives. The most recent loss, (just yesterday) was Intuitive’s second top front tooth. When I went to pick the kids up from school, she held up a little plastic bag (I guess after you lose 2 teeth at school, they decide to stop giving you the cute little treasure box to take it home with) with her slightly bloody tooth. She regailed us with her tale:

“IT WAS SOOOOOOOOO BLOODY! IT WAS AWESOME!”

At this point, I lied and said that I was very sorry I missed the momentous, and bloody, occasion. Once again, we have a child with a large hole in her mouth, and a slight lisp. If she’s anything like her sister, those two front teeth will take 5 months to come in, and we will have some time to enjoy the toothless grins. As Violet mentioned yesterday, as Pterodactyl gains teeth, we lose them.

With the 11 (and counting) teeth that have fallen from Diva & Intuitive’s mouths… The tooth fairy has been busy. The Mayor & First Husband always used to do something creative when I lost a tooth. The money would be in fun formations, there would be props, etc. I decided a long time ago to do similar things.

Then I had 3 children. Then the 2 older ones started loosing teeth… Then we got to…. oh… tooth 6? And would you believe it…

That bitch, the tooth fairy, FORGOT to come visit.

Actually, the bitch fell asleep on the sofa and just plain forgot to lay out the money on the table. Once morning came, and the kid was looking for her loot, I had to do some fancy footwork. Ran to the kitchen, grabbed some glitter and made it look like the dumbass tooth fairy got lost and came in through the kitchen, leaving a pile of glitter, and a few extra dollars.

It worked, but…

I felt like SUCH an ass.

(Oh, and did I mention that it was Intuitive’s… like.. first or second tooth?)

Since then, I have had to set reminders on my phone when teeth fall out. It’s worked so far, and last night, the fairy left an intricate chain of dollar bills and the tooth hanging from the fan pulley-thing with paperclips.

All 3 kids were thoroughly impressed at the Tooth Fairy’s innovative presentation. Now, it’s off to plan what the hell the dumass tooth fairy will have to do next time, since there are at least 3 more loose teeth in Diva & Intuitive’s mouths.

Has the Tooth Fairy ever forgotten to visit you?

 

-Daisy

Vanity.

11 Apr

Last night, my step-mother, Dorothy, told me a thought-provoking story.

 

She was in the fitting room at a major department store, trying on a pair of Spanx. (You know, those slimming under-garments?) In a fit of rage, the belly-slimmer tried to attack her. When it couldn’t kill her by cutting off her circulation, it went straight for her face, trying to block off her oxygen and prevent her from defending herself. Don’t worry – she won. She defeated the Spanks, and save for a little trauma, is just fine.

 

I started thinking about all the awful things I do to myself in the name of beauty. I have several pairs of Spanx (and its competitors). I have the kind that look like shorts. I have the high-waisted, panty kind. I have the tank-top kind, and the kind that covers my stomach but circumvents my boobs. I wear them regularly, like a blood sausage squeezed into intestines.  (Thanks for the visual. Love, Daisy)

 

Flabby tummy aside, I do other, violent things to my body. I use a hair-straightener that has, on more than one occasion, singed my ear, neck, hand, etc. I’ve poked my eye with liquid eyeliner applicators more than I’d care to admit. I used to go to a tanning booth, although now that my days are extended to 30 hours, I don’t have the time to poison myself like I used to.

 

Why do I do this to myself? I’m happily married. Buddy’s stuck with me whether I’m 130 pounds and pretty, or 400 pounds and covered in donut powder. (And he’s admitted to finding me beautiful in the latter state AS WELL AS the former.) I’m confident enough not to base my self-worth off the opinions of other women. I work with tacky teenagers all day who think that formal wear is a pair of dark-wash jeans and a bejeweled belly shirt, so nothing I wear will impress them. I can’t think of one good reason to continue putting myself through this torture regiment.

 

Oh yeah. It’s because I’m vain.

 

What terrible things do you do to yourself to create the illusion of beauty?

 

-Violet

 

The one where Daisy bows down to Violet.

5 Apr

Violet has been in the couponing game for quite awhile. She has also been attempting to school me in couponing for a while. Finally, I decided to give in and attend Violet’s Couponing for Dummies and Those With Short Attention Spansclass.

A few Sundays ago, I had Terry get me a newspaper. I sat down on the sofa with a pile of money saving papers in my lap. I called Violet.

“Ok, I have the coupons in my lap. Let’s get this shit started.”

In true teacher fashion, she ran our discussion like a lesson. She had questions, info, facts. Assignments. To be honest, I was a little frightened. We held our Coupon Sunday classes a couple of Sundays in a row, and finally, it was time for her to turn me loose in a grocery store with my new bright orange accordian file (ugh, it was the only color they had.).

Terry went with me on my first big couponing extravaganza. That was probably a mistake. I was a bit neurotic. I looked like those women in the extreme couponing shows. Before we embarked on the insanity, I sat in front of the computer with my grocery store’s website open. I went through their weekly deals and BOGO’s and compared with what coupons I had, and what I needed. This took me probably 45 minutes. I had a comprehensive list, marked with what items were BOGO or franken-BOGO, (refer to Violet’s couponing-basics post for that explanation) I listed which items I had coupons for, what quantities I needed for the specific coupons. I moved the coupons I was planning to use to a front pocket in my accordian. I was ready. It. Was. Intense.

We walked in, I situated my purse in the baby seat thing in the cart. Put my accoridan file on top, paper clipped my list to the cart, and got down to business.

Terry assumed that this would be like an ordinary shopping trip, grabbing what we needed in whatever order we found it. No. Not so much.

Sorry, honey.

I was militant. Organized. Totally type A. (I’m SO not type A. I so WISH I was type A.)

We made it through the entire grocery store, taking advantage of as many BOGO’s as we could. When we finally got to the check out line, after trying to unload our 2 carts of stuff as quickly as possible, I set up shop in front of the monitor to see my items and savings. I handed over my precious coupons and watched the price drop even more.

I did end up spending more than I usually would on 2 weeks worth of groceries, (but not by much) but I was able to stockpile a bunch of things. Things that we will inevitably USE. Cereal, beef/chicken stock, mac & cheese.

My bill would have been around $550

I paid about $360

The little box on the bottom said

Today you saved: $191

We are so set on non perishables now. I won’t have to do a MAJOR grocery shopping expedition for at least a month, probably more. Unfortunately, produce usually doesn’t have coupons, so a lot of my money went towards that. I was able to take advantage of some franken-BOGOS on produce though.

Planning and setting up my couponing was a bit involved. Was it worth it? Hell yes. Savings are savings. They are even better if you are saving on something you were going to buy REGARDLESS. I look forward to getting a Sunday paper and building up my stockpile of coupons and comparing weekly adds to see how to stetch my money.

I also wanted to share something sort of related to money saving tricks..

Pterodactyl’s birthday is coming up, and I was planning on buying her a cute little slide from Little Tikes. I actually was going to order it today. I found a nice coupon online from retailmenot.com, and the Little Tikes website had free shipping.

The slide was $89.99. I did find it for a little cheaper on other websites, but no one else offered free shipping. Shipping was around $30 on other sites. Anyway, I was out running errands (like one to get the First Husband some cases of diet coke at a great price thanks to coupons lol) and on my way home, I drove by a little thrift store near my house.

What was sitting outside?

The exact slide I was going to get Pterodactyl.

The. Exact. One.

I did a u-turn and parked. I sauntered (yeah right, I fucking ran) to the slide and quickly examined it. The thing had to be used, like, once. Whoever got to play with it before had stuck about 20 stickers to the slide. Other than that, it was perfect. I ran in and asked the lady inside for the price.

She looked over at the slide and said… Get ready..

TWELVE DOLLARS.

“I’ll take it.”

 

I somehow managed to shove the whole thing in one piece into my truck. Got that baby home, brought it inside, and started taking it apart. I laid the slide down on my coffee table, and liberally applied Goo-Gone. Five minutes later, all evidence of the previous owners’ stickers was GONE. I took the entire thing apart, and cleaned every inch of it with antibacterial multi-surface cleaner (so I’m a little crazy about having other people’s germs), and it looks like it just came out of the box.

Not only did I get an amazing deal; I mean, really, $12 as opposed to $89.99?! I also feel as though I did my part to be sort of “green”. Giving a gently used piece of indestructible kid stuff another life, while saving.. what? 85%?

I’m not that great at math, but I do know a good deal when I see one.

-Daisy

Celebrity Parents

30 Mar

Celebrity culture has always been somewhat of a twatwaffle to me. I don’t get into the drama; I don’t understand the hysteria. I don’t follow Perez Hilton’s blog. For all intents and purposes, I think celebrities are a bunch of middle class morons who happened to fall upon fame and wealth because they were either a) favored with big tits or b) can make themselves cry on cue. (Daisy and I are blessed with both of these attributes. Where are our millions?) At some point in their journey from mediocrity to internationally irrelevant, someone issued them all (collectively) a license for weirdness.

I didn’t used to mind the weirdness. Tom Cruise wants to put his money in a tax shelter and call it religion? Fine. Follow that up with a critique of psychology as a legitimate medicine practice? He’s an asshole, but I didn’t give him enough credit to care. Fergie wants to pee-pee in her pants without a Huggies, then shower in champagne to cover it up? Have fun! But then these weird-ass movie stars decided to tell the world how to parent. That’s when I became annoyed.

First, we had Mayim Bialik telling us that we need to breastfeed our kids until they’re five. (Anyone else think of the movie Grown Ups when you hear that?!)  January Jones, of Mad Men fame, wants you to eat your own placenta after you deliver your afterbirth. (And I know that in some less civilized cultures, that’s acceptable, but I’m a middle class American. We don’t cannibalize our extraneous organs.) Now, Alicia Silverstone wants us to feed our children like we’re pigeons by chewing our food and spitting it into the waiting infant’s mouth. Oh, hell no.

Here’s my problem: for one, parenting is a completely individualistic practice. No two mothers are alike, and no two children are alike. Prescribing any parenting practice is risky business (haha, Tom Cruise joke!) because methods that worked in one family may fail in another, and who will the failing family blame? The person who offered the advice in the first place. Not a wise idea if your income is based on your likability. My other problem with this celeb-mommy-culture is that too many people put these assholes on a pedestal. For these people, anything a favorite celebrity spews from her mouth is scripture. Cameron Diaz wants me to exfoliate with llama fetus eyeballs? Sounds great! Jack Black suggests I huff Dorito Cheese dust to make my hair grow longer? Yum! So when the Hollywood-types tell you that you should cover your kid in olive juice every day to prevent AIDS, some ignorant imbecile will take that to heart and buy a Costco-sized jar of olives.

Weirdo celebrity parents: keep your strange-as-shit thoughts to yourself. If you want to name your kid Pilot Inspektor or Jermajesty, be my fucking guest. No skin off my back. But to promote your strange (and possibly harmful) parenting tactics to your unassuming, impressionable fan base is wrong. You’re fucking with a child’s well-being when you tell his parent to eat a lock of his hair every year on his birthday, or whatever unusual shit you do with your children. Just like with politics, Hollywood Freaks, keep your nose out of shit you don’t understand, and stick to acting/singing/slutting.

A picture isn’t worth a thousand words. Sometimes.

29 Mar

Before Violet and I began this blog, we spent many hours discussing it and what it would consist of. We discussed having a cute “getting to know us” page, (About Daisy & Violet) as well as a “Mission Statement“. We thought those would be fun ways for ourselves to set the tone for our blog before we even wrote a post.

We also discussed privacy. We decided to not use our real names, or our spouse’s names, or our children’s names. We gleefully discussed our blog pseudonyms, which are our nicknames from high school, and concocted names for our family. Along with our name discussions, we discussed the issue of photographs of our children.

I read many, many mommy blogs. I enjoy seeing how other families work, and how other mom’s balance life. I read a pretty nice variety of blogs, from Super-Christian Mommy bloggers, to Gay Dad’s and their adventures. What can I say? I enjoy reading and learning about different people. One common denominator in all of these blogs is the pictures. Pictures of their children doing silly things. Pictures of family excursions and vacations.

Now look at our blog. Go ahead, I’ll wait.

Yeah, no pictures of ourselves and families. Text messages and occasional random shit that we see, but no precious snapshots.

Why?

We decided that we wanted a sense of anonymity. Not so much for ourselves, but for our children. We think that our children are quite possibly the cutest in the world. We would love to heavily season our blog with photos of our collective brood, but alas, the internet is a fucking scary place. People search for (and find) all kinds of crazy shit. Personally, I don’t want an innocent photo of my kids turning into something naughty, and I can say with certainty that Violet doesn’t either. I’m not looking down upon anyone who posts photos of their children on their blog. I love looking at other people’s photos. Kids are cute. They do cute shit.

Perhaps I’m just a crazy lady, and I shouldn’t over think things, but “not-nice” things have happened. I’ve read that a blogger posted photos of her infant that passed away, and it was discovered that someone stole those photos and used them in.. less than admirable ways. There is a very popular mommy blogger that often posts photos of her children in various states of undress and occasionally some questionable positions and tags them with “pedophilic key words”. That is just asking for trouble. Why do that to your children? (Granted, this mommy blogger is “two pieces of bread short of a sandwich”, and I enjoy reading her “naysayer” blog more than hers. Anyone wanna guess who I’m talking about?)

Maybe we’ll post a picture of ourselves, with a little facial blurring. We did it on twitter.

Maybe one day we’ll post a photo of our kids. Maybe we won’t.

What WILL we do? Continue writing and sharing funny photos of other stuff, and hopefully, you’ll continue reading and commenting.

Do you think I’m crazy? What are your views?

 

-Daisy

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