Momaical is a humorous look at trying not to raise a flock of assholes. Cursing & copious coffee involved.

Momaical: [mom-mahy-uh-kuhl] = (Hybrid of Mom and Maniacal.)


Flipped The Bird

I poke my head into Lena's bedroom where the girls are playing without any tears or arguing (for a change). 

Tracy: "Hi girls!  I love it when you play so nicely together!  What are you doing?"

Lena: "Hi Mommy! This is my bird.  Her name is Tweeter Twat."

My husband yells from his office: "Hey! That's Mommy's nickname too!"

Emmeline: "Twat..twat...twat...twat..."

Tracy: "Dear God in Heaven."

Lena: "Tweeter Twat sings Mommy.  Tweet tweet twat!"

Emmeline: "Yeah. Him sings. Twat twat twat!"

Tracy (glaring at my husband): "Keep. Your. Mouth. Shut."

He smirks at me.

Sigh...this is clearly going to be a three cup of coffee day. 

Thank you ladies and gentlemen!
I'll be here all week.  Try the veal...


My Rapid Descent Into Delusion (And Back)

Lena joined my husband on a business trip last week.  His meetings took him across the country close to his parents.  So, Lena was able to spend time with them while he tackled meetings that began early in the morning and lasted long into the evening.  I was excited for the opportunity for Lena to see my in-laws but was a complete wreck about the pending trip on the days leading up to their departure.  Emmeline and I were going to be on our own for a week for the first time ever.

The (very early) morning of I trudged downstairs as my eldest daughter and husband dragged their suitcases outside for the first steps of Lena's first adventure without me.  I hugged her fiercely and kissed her little face a million times and then she left me crying in the doorway. And, thus began my rapid descent into delusion.

Stage One: Extreme Anxiety
I am convinced something bad is going to happen and I am not there.  I have a headache like you read about.  I am shaking like I've just watched hours of seizure inducing Japanese cartoons.  My cell phone is my only lifeline to her.  "No you can't watch Super Why on my phone.  Lena might call!"  I am a disaster in flip flops until my 5 year old's plane lands. What if...what if...what if....

Stage Two: Sadness
My baby is on an adventure without me... This is the longest I have been away from her... Sigh... Tears... Depression....  What if something happens? I mean, yes, her father is with her. And, yes, in a crisis he is FAR more prepared to handle dire or dangerous circumstances.   But that's my baby girl!  More tears... Sleeping....Snuggles with Emmeline...

Stage Three:  Acceptance
Oh, what is that sound I hear?  Silence?  No whining?  A tiny voice talking to her baby "Lemonade" but no fighting?  No one is crying?  Just one toddler playing nicely?  Breathe in, breathe Let's change out the fish tank.  It will be nice to clean it and add a few new mollies to our family.  That may pep up my mood!

Stage Four: Accomplishment
I will keep busy so I don't fall back into depression because I am missing my people.  I will CLEAN!  I will PROJECT!  I will cross things off my To Do List!  Emmeline and I tackle the house.  We unpacked boxes still leftover from the move.  We gathered 5 giant bags of toys and clothes to donate.  We hung things that needed to be hung on walls and finished decorating rooms and organizing everything we own.  We went one project too far and ended up with a hole in the wall.  Oops.

Iwillkeepbusyiwillkeepbusyiwillkeepbusy and spend a lot of money doing this. 

Stage Five: Delirium
I CAN DO IT ALL AND CREATE MEMORIES DAMMIT!  Let's have a tea party!  Let's hot glue gun works of art for your walls! Pinterest away! Let's garden and "fall-ify" our house!  Let's get pumpkins and berry-thingies and candles and... What else can I do? I know! I will take the curtains down and sew matching frocks for my girls with the material! Who cares that I can't sew?  Not me!  I can just make togas!  Those Romans knew how to par-tay!  Woo hoo!

Stage Six: Delusion
Today is the day my husband and daughter are coming home!  HOORAY! When they get here, the house will ring will laughter!  We will hug and do more projects together and eat gourmet food and actually dry my hair and wear makeup! My husband will gape at all the work we have done in amazement and rush off to bring me back something sparkly in a blue and white box.  He will shout off the rooftops how lucky he is to have a wife that just single handedly raised the value of the entire neighborhood with her projects!  Lena will weep with joy at how clean and organized her room is!  She will hug Emmeline in sheer astonishment at the gorgeous new fish tank complete with mermaid and castle!  And they will laugh until they stop and play babies together without any crying! They will SHARE! World peace will be established and NSYNC will get back together!

Stage Seven: And...back
My people arrive home at midnight after a several hour delay.  Lena is crying because she is tired from a long trip.  We all go to bed for a few hours until Emmeline runs into the room at 4am and yells "Hooway!  I wakey! And, me are big and scaped me kibby!"  Lena wakes up crying because she misses her Grammy.  She is crying because we "ruined" her fish tank.  She is crying because her stuff "got squished" on the flight home.  It's not fair that Emmeline had special crafts in her room.  Emmeline is crying because Lena won't share her new "akeup."  Lena is crying because Emmeline scratched her trying to get her "yipstick."  My husband hasn't said a thing about all the blood, sweat, tears and holes that I have slaved over all week.  When I bring it up he shrugs and says "I saw it. It's good."  Yeah.  That fell slightly south of the pomp and circumstance I was hoping for.  It's only 8am and I'm already ready for bed. I have a headache the size of Egypt.  I sip my coffee to the sound of hysterical wailing about stickers while my husband complains about how exhausted he is. family is home....
She is armed with a glue gun and considered very dangerous. 

As a matter of fact, I DO need 7,000 tiny pumpkins!


Touched by an Angel

Emmeline and I are in the backyard gardening.  The weather is cooling and it is incredibly enjoyable to be outside.  I am transplanting all of my beautiful succulents so that they can grow and multiply through the winter.  Emmeline has chosen a ton of "pity fowers to pwant"  (chrysanthemums) into her tiny pots.  We have our "gubs" on and are chatting about two-year-old conundrums like "how you get pokey pwants out dat pot?" while I transplant cacti.  Suddenly she says "Oh!  Hi!"  I answer her, "Hello there, lady!"  She says "Not you, Mommy.  Dat guy dat bizits."

That guy that visits?  Holy. Shit.  What guy?  We are home alone.  I do the crazy Mama bear protective jump in front of my daughter and put my arms out ready to grab her and run from an attacker.  My eyes dart around the perimeter of the yard; we are alone.  My heart is racing and I am trying to keep my fight-or-flight adrenaline in check.  "Where did you see the guy honey?"  "Siwwy Mommy! Da guy is wite hewe!" She holds her hand out next to her, pointing at empty space. 

Ohhhhhhh.  She has an invisible friend!  "Him is me fwend and he is hewpin me pwant!" 

"That's great honey!"  I return to my pile of dirt. Her words roll around in my mind while I put tiny buds into spice jars. I think it's interesting because she says her "friend" is a guy.  Usually when she plays babies they are girls.  Her stuffed animals are girls. Plants are girls. Pretty much everything except for Daddy is female in her world.  We are swimming in a sea of estrogen in this house.

Both my girls have great imaginations too and I love to watch their brains in action.  So I tend to ask them multi-faceted questions that require them to dig a little deeper than a holophrastic "yes" or "no" response. 

"Is your friend still here Emmeline?"

"Yeah, him is." 

"What does he look like?"

She begins to describe him: "Him is taw.  Him has gasses.  Him has a haiwy face. Him is me fwend. "

I slowly turn and stare at her.  The temperature drops noticibly.  She is describing someone dear to us that was taken way too early in life.  Someone she unfortunately never met, because he has been gone for several years now.  I don't want her to stop talking.  I want to hear all about her friend.  But, I know if I ask too many questions, she will clam up.  So I say "Well, then you're really lucky to have him as a friend. He's a great guy. I wish I could hang out with him too."  

What if "imaginary friends" aren't really made up?  What if they're heaven sent angels checking in? Why don't I see him - maybe this exchange is not meant to be seen by my eyes? Only witnessed through the minds of those who have not been jaded to this whole concept?

I am a voyeur to the tête-à-tête.  "Yeah me are two.  Eena is five.  Me are big.  Me hab a big giw kibby. Dis is me baby. Her name is Yemonade.  Do you yike me fowers?"    After a few minutes, she is done planting and she stops talking. 

"Everything ok, baby?" 

"Yup!  Me fowers is done.  Me fwend hada go bye-bye."  

"Well, your flowers look fantastic!"

Could it be she has a fabulous imagination?  Absolutely.  But, it's really comforting to think that once a loved one passes that they still come to check on you.  I like thinking that loved ones no longer in corporeal form still visit to get to know your babies and help them plant flowers.  And, now every time I see these flowers, I will smile in memory of our loved one and my daughter's new "fwend".

"Emmeline's Pity Fowers"

My unhealthy obsession with succulents...

The Most Interesting Man In The World Pimps Momaical


Fore! Not FOUR!

I freakin hate nature.  Ok, not all nature.  I like cute nature like bunnies, otters and baby things that are furry and sweet.  I need to host animal auditions.  You're cute - you can stay somewhere in my vicinity - just not in my yard.  Oh, you're a ferocious, venomous thing that wants to eat my face off?  Please step on to this boat so you can be shipped off to an island far away from me.  That's why I avoid camping.  (That, and I don't understand why people would want to "vacation" like they're homeless).  And yet wild animals seem to be all up in my mix lately. 

Example 1: Black Widow spider beeotch tries to take over my plants:

Example 2: Tarantulas are having an orgy in my backyard:

Example 3:  My husband and I found ourselves with a few free hours on Sunday.  We decided to hit the links for a quick round of golf. It wasn't busy - so we can play just the two of us.  Now, the club where we belong does warn you about the potential to have a wild animal or two join your twosome:

But, really.  Wild boar trying to lower their handicap - I'm not buying it.  Golf should be about looking cute in your golf attire and wearing fabulous shoes.  Boars DO NOT look cute in collared shirts and can you imagine them trying to fit their hooves into a pair of black and white saddle Calloways?  Not so much.

So, my husband and I headed out to the course.  The good news is my game is consistent. And, by "consistent," I mean bad.  But it's ok to be bad at golf while looking cute in the golf outfit (see why boars will never be sponsored?).  We were heading to tee off at the 17th hole when we had another twosome decide to join our game.

WTF?!?  I specifically play at weird times because I don't want another pair of golfers to join us.  Hello!  I suck at golf!   How am I ever going to improve my game if I'm all nervous about looking like an ass while playing? And, of course, there's that small concern about DYING FROM A VENOMOUS SNAKE BITE.   Plus, they never pay for drinks after.  They're all "I can't carry my wallet.  I don't have any hands."  What the hell?  You are a wallet!  Cheap bastards.

We politely decline their invitation to play with them.  Trying for proper golf etiquette, we even said they could play through ahead of us.  Freakin snakes don't know how to excuse themselves from an uncomfortable situation without a hissy fit either.  They got all pissed and started flipping us off with their rattles.  So, my husband had to encourage their departure with one of the rakes from the sand trap while I very bravely stood up on the seat of the golf cart and screamed like a banshee. 

It looks like I'm going to have to pony up for some lessons from the golf pro at the club. Because if we keep having to kill off opponents just so I don't have to pair up with them - it's really going to affect the club business.  On the bright side, it will open up tee times for us and probably give us a deep discount on all the cute golf shirts the pro shop sells!


An Arachnid Love Story

It's that time of year again.  The air is getting crisp. The leaves are changing colors.  Women everywhere are storing their white clothes.   And the tarantulas are getting their swerve on.  That's right everybody.  It's tarantula mating season.

Male tarantulas live about seven years, during which they remain mostly hidden to avoid becoming a tasty bird snack.  When they reach tarantula teenager-dom they come out of hiding and migrate down the mountainside for a story to rival Tolstoy.  They are all boy tarantula hormonal wandering around the world with no curfew. They're getting tattoos, drinking Jack Daniels and and banging any loose tarantula that crosses their path.

And they're walking right into my freakin backyard because I live right next to the mountain where they're having a giant spider orgy. 

Our neighborhood is becoming tarantula Hedonism.  Little iPods are blaring Marvin Gaye.  A frat house has sprouted up under my palm tree and the lady bugs are walking around with shots.  And I'm the bouncer.  I don't need any horned out, drunk arachnid walk of shaming into my house to puke on my floor until they die.  Because that's their plan: drink, smoke and screw until the weather changes and they die.  Now that I think about it, not a bad way to go, really.  But it's not happening on my watch.

The other day I spied a furry thing tumble across my path.  I grabbed my weapon of choice (flip flop) and beat that bastard into submission.  Ok, it was only a hairball, but I made it my bitch.  I'm ready, you eight legged freaks.  You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here. 

He'll be riding six White Horses when he comes...
(That's the sorority next door)


Ohhhhh Yeah!

Checking my watch, I scurry around the house, picking up the odds and ends my children have strewn throughout the first floor.  The dishwasher is running, fruit is cut up for a nice snack, and beverages are cooling.  I pause in the mirror, smoothing down a wayward strand of hair.  I'm as ready as I'm going to be for this. The doorbell rings and butterflies perform the Macarena in my stomach. My daughter has set me up on a blind date.   And they have arrived.

A tiny blonde girl runs through my living room and heads to the backyard with my girls.  Let the date begin.  Because essentially that's what it is: a blind date set up by the kids. I'm being introduced to new people through my daughter in the hopes that the Moms will drink the school Kool Aid and allow them to play.  But, this Kool-Aid isn't spiked - which would make the event less awkward.  It's actual Kool-Aid - with the crunchy residual sugar.

At the end of the small chat - you hope you walk away with a new girlfriend or at least a few easy hours of entertainment for your kids.  However, there are days that you meet with these new moms and you have NOTHING in common with them.  The entire play date is forced and painful.  Everyone is watching the minutes drag by like wounded snails.  You just sit around and smile and excuse yourself to see if you can escape out a fire exit.  "Looks like a great time to pick up smoking!  I'll be out front slowly killing myself which will be less excruciating than this play date."

Or, they are people you would never, ever be friends with in a zillion years: "May I offer your child and you something to drink?"  "Is it organic?  Freshly squeezed?  We import all of our beverages from the Pyrenees Mountains.  Nothing but the best for my kids."  Oh. So. No Kool-Aid?

But, with some moms, it's more like a job interview:

"I have reviewed your Mom resume.  While your references are impressive, I can't help but notice that your child is an asshole.  That being said, we don't want your family's assholiness to rub off on my cherub.  Let's just smile plastic acknowledgements, say we're going to get together, but not really ever follow through on it, 'kay?"

Today's play date Mom excused herself a little while after she arrived under the guise of running home quickly. Practically crawled out of the bathroom window to escape - maybe even picked up a bad habit or two just to get out.  She never returned.  She even sent her husband to pick up their daughter.  I'm guessing she won't be calling again soon... Maybe Peach Mango was a bad choice.  Should have gone with the Cherry.


Dancing Naked in the Fountain of Bloggers

Sometimes you've got to pull up your big girl pants and do something that terrifies you.  I'm not talking about dressing in gang colors and then walking in the rival gangs territory being all "Woo hoo!  Bloods Rule, Crips Drool!"  I'm talking about something that you want to do because it's somewhere on your bucket list. Deep in the recesses of your brain, hidden from all including your shadow, there's a gnawing little wish.  Just. What. If.

Part of you is petrified of failure.  Part of you is thinking - what the hell? What's the worst that could happen?  And part of you is thinking "Holy God, brain! Could you please STFU about all the 'worsts that could happen'!!"  Because once and a while, you have to believe in yourself and put yourself out there.  Just because you CAN.  Just to see what if.... And, that's akin to dancing naked in a fountain at the Bacardi Factory in Bermuda or in the fountain at the Clevelander Hotel in South Beach or during parents weekend at your Alma mater.   (Not that I'm speaking from experience.  Ok, I might be.). 

Today, I tucked my lily-livered self-esteem into my pocket of my Hudsons and entered my blog into the Blogger Idol contest.  I can't sing worth a damn.  I can't dance.  But, once in a great while, I believe that I can write.  (Unless I'm PMS-ing and then I am pretty sure my blog should be at the bottom of a bird cage as I cry into the shat on remains of my keyboard.) 

So, the deal is this.  Between now and September 20th people are auditioning their blogs to be one of the final 12.  Then, the contestants compete, in the same style as American Idol.  Except, no Aretha Franklin will be blasting through these tiny speakers.  The finalists are given topics every Saturday that has to be posted by the following Monday. Then the voting begins!  And I'm hoping for a little R-E-S-P-E-C-T!

A big part of me is terrified.  I mean, it's one thing to beg your friends and new acquaintances to follow your blathering.  It's entirely another thing to place your heart and soul in HTML in front of a group of other bloggers and see what they think of your baby.  You hope it's not like that Seinfeld episode when they are looking at that ugly baby and no one really knows what to say to the ecstatic new parents.  "Oh...look at that.  It's a whole lot of...words.  And punctuation.  Especially ellipses.  Girlfriend loves her some ellipses."  

But, it's too late now to turn back.  I have written up my 300 words self-adulation about why I am an Idol contender.  I FB'd, I tweeted, I have pressed send.  It is out there in the land of the Internet for all perpetuity. So, now in the fashion of Idol, I am asking you to help me.  Begging, actually.  Because I'm not afraid to roll like that in times of need.

To vote, you go to this link: and say you vote for my blog.  In fact, I'll type it out so you can just cut, click and paste. 

Voting for

Now, there's nothing for me to do but wait, and over think, and wait some more.  Oh, and vote, of course. Lots of voting.  I'll keep you posted in the meanwhile if I hear anything.  If nothing but sobbing "You're a no good, heart breaker" is threatening to burst your eardrums through your speakers - you'll know I didn't make it. 

At least I don't have to kill off the other bloggers as part of the competition...yet...  

May the odds be ever in my favor...


The Seventh Circle Of Hell

There we were, seated on benches across from each other. Strangers sizing each other up.  I smiled in her direction. Not a smile that drags out the crow's feet and comes from your heart.  A smile of acknowledgement - yes, we are here in the same room for the same reason.   Seven For All Mankind jeans? Check.  Sparkly tank top? Check.  Jaunty pony tail? Just enough make up to hide the signs of sleep deprivation - yet not too much to look like you're trying too hard? Check and check.  I'm ready.  I walk over, thrust my open hand out and say "Hi! I'm Lena's mom!  How do you guys know the birthday girl?"

I have entered the seventh circle of hell.  And I have gone willingly. 

Sure, I could have taken the easy way out.  I mean, it's simple to decline an child's birthday party e-vite.  You don't even need to look the person in the eye and make up some lame ass excuse as to why you're not able to attend.  You just point and click - "Oh, so sorry! Cannot attend. I have a life that does not include your torture chamber!!!  Bahahahaha!!!" And then surf away without a single click back.  But, yet I never do.  Apparently I enjoy suffering. 

Birthday parties are a child's rite of passage.  My daughter has been planning her 6th, 7th and 8th birthday celebrations since the day after she turned 5.  However, these days it's so much more than a simple gathering to celebrate the arrival of another year in a child's life.  It's become Keeping Up With The Kardashians: Kid's Edition.  Nowadays kid's birthday parties include: limos, petting zoos, ponies, bouncy houses, and the Flying Walendas.  Maroon 5 was supposed to show up but they were delayed in Munich.  Long gone are the days when a really special birthday is celebrated at Ground Round and it's so cool because you can watch a movie while you eat cake and popcorn!!!  People are taking out second and third mortgages to pay for these parties.  $5,000 for a 2nd birthday party?  Have you lost your freakin mind????? The birthday child won't even remember it!  And what the hell do you have to ante up for a big birthday like 16, 18, or 21?  "Here's your Ferrari, honey.  Please come drive by us once and a while, where we can now afford to live; in our van down by the river."

We arrived at the latest soiree and Lena runs off with a group of tiny people to hurl themselves through miles of giant inflatable awesomeness.  I look down and there's this blonde, sticky, crying thing suction cupped to my leg.  I keep asking "Who brought the whiny kid?" but no one steps forward to claim her.  It turns out that I brought the whiny kid.  Dammit.

There I stand, swathed in a giant crying lanyard while herds of pink screaming pony tails run amok.  And, like with every kids birthday party, delusional me thinks to myself - I love this mom.  She likes me.  Therefore she must like people like me.  We will all have one giant love fest and sing kumbaya with my kindred spirits! Testing out this theory, I sit next to a cute mom.  After a few minutes of awkward polite talk, I excuse myself to go "check on my daughter." Fail.  Attempt #2:  Stand next to a couple of women who clearly know each other.  They smile and acknowledge my proximity but make no effort to include me in the conversation. Fail.  So I just stand there like a birthday party pariah.  Every party needs one.  Maybe that's my lot in life at children's parties?

Normally, I force myself on people.  I am funny!  You will like me!!!  But, at these parties, I just don't feel like making the required amount of effort.  There's not a great ROI - I mean, I probably won't see them again until next year's party when they totally ignore me.  So, I just smile like a crazed psychopath while my toddler entertains herself by yanking down the collar of my shirt.  You know, so it becomes "that kind of party" and I can stand out even more like a sore thumb with the whiny appendage. Yay, me!

7,200 excruciating seconds later it's time to go.  Cake has been consumed. Children are properly exhausted combined with sugar overload - which means we are on the cusp of apocalyptic meltdowns x25.   My little remora has decided that she is finally "weady" to go bounce on all the rides (which are now deflated because the party is wrapping up).  Hooray!  Two screaming kids to drag into the car!  And, we only have 5 more days until the next kid in Lena's class turns six!  Yippee!

Is it a bad idea to bring a box of wine with a straw?  It's like a giant juice box for moms, right?  Maybe then people will talk to me - since I brought the booze.  "Hey, I bet if you're nice to the crazy lady she'll give you a whack off her wine box."

"Happy birthday kid.  Don't grow up too fast...this is a glimpse your future....teetotaling at a kids birthday party by yourself...Whee...."


Hello Kitty Tsunami of 2012

It was Sunday night.  I was at the end of my tolerance for being a mommy.  I hadn't slept more than a few hours over the past several days due to a toddler with a cold.  I was tired, more than a little grouchy and desperate for a few minutes to myself.  Emmeline was bathed and ready for bed.  Lena needed to wrap up her shower.  My husband was upstairs getting ready for a business trip.  I cracked open my computer and prepared for some "me time" indulgence.


Sigh.  I made it 3 minutes without being needed. 

"Ok, I'm coming." Grrr.....

I walk the green mile up my staircase.  My instinct is screaming at me like people watching a horror movie:  Turn around!  Run the other direction.  Don't go toward the crying!!!!!  But, I keep trudging toward impending catastrophe.  (And the people watching this unfold on the big screen are like - Oh, dayyyymm, she's a goner.  Why don't they ever learn?  I tried to warn her but she just struts in.  Dummy.)

My husband dashes out of the bathroom.  His shirt is soaked.  He's half laughing, half panicking.  "Lena has soap in her eyes and Emmeline has squirted lotion EVERYWHERE! I can't do this!"  I want to laugh right in his face because this is what I deal with seven-hundred-thousand-million times a day.  Someone is hurt, someone is wreaking havoc somewhere which will inevitably create a ton of work for me.  Everyone is crying.  Someone is panicking because everyone is crying. You want to call in a SWAT team to take over - but it is up to you and you alone to restore your home to "normalcy".   But, I have figured out how to juggle all these balls of hideous.  My husband, however, has not.  Or, more likely he's just waaaaay smarter and beats the game by pleading ignorance.  I send him off get the soap out of Lena's eyes while I tackle the mess.

I walk toward the wafting aroma of strawberries.  The nightmare in front of me unfolds before my eyes.

Problem #1: This party of one occurred in Lena's bedroom.  Apparently lotion raves are performed naked (but without bongos for those of you who wish to try this at home).

Problem #2: The lotion used was Lena's "special Hello Kitty lotion."  (Lena to English translation: anything "special" means no one is allowed to touch it unless they want to die a terrible, painful death).

Problem #3: The lotion tsunami has obliterated Lena's room, making it look like a movie set for some really bad and graphic porn.  I'm pretty sure I saw some extra in the corner smoking a Marlboro.

Problem #4: Lotion isn't easy to pick up quickly.  And, Lena was just about done with her shower.  Should Lena witness said destruction, her total freak out would make Hiroshima look like a small altercation. 

Emmeline: "Hi Mommy! Me use yotion!" 

Tracy: "Yes, thank you, Master of the Obvious.  Do you think your sister is going to be happy about this?"

Emmeline: "Nope. Her gonna lell. But, stwawbewies mell nice." 

Tracy: "Well, thank God you didn't choose the low-tide smell one. How do you propose we clean this up quickly?"

Emmeline: "Woll awond in it."

At least she had formulated some kind of exit strategy - one that I would never have come up with on my own.  She rolled around in the lotion-y mess of the carpet, bed, and walls.  I tried desperately to wipe it up quickly with towels while my husband wasted time keeping Lena occupied.  Somehow my slippery toddler and I removed all the evidence of the Hello Kitty Lotion Tsunami of 2012 before Lena emerged from the shower.  I tried to pick Emmeline up to get her cleaned up in my bathroom, but she kept sliding through my arms.  Damn it.  Too late.  Here comes 3 feet of unicorn towel stomping down the hallway.  Ok, everyone!  Smile and look natural!

Lena: "Hmm...why does my room smell like strawberry Hello Kitty Lotion? WAS EMMELINE USING MY LOTION??????"

Which goes to prove, you can remove only some of the evidence from a party, but in the end your parents always find out.   Where is FEMA when you need them?

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