Mom Took a Beat Down.

Having one of those days when you feel like the worst mom ever? You are not alone. 

Neighbor: “Who’s that lady laying in your front yard?”

My children: “Oh that’s our mom.”

I feel like that’s how a conversation would have gone Monday if I allowed myself to escape the house for help. But if I would have tried my children would have done just that … brought me down in the front yard so I wouldn’t have gotten too far.

A Mommy Beat Down …

Ever have one of those days? One of those days where your kids, the mailman , strangers, grocery clerks and your husband just beat you down. Nothing seems to be going right and the rest of the world is winning the lottery and wearing gold medals for being perfect attentive parents.

I was having one of those days. The Midwest air was thick and humid feeling like a sweaty sheet that gets wrapped around your legs in the middle of the night. To make matters worse I’d been fighting a sinus infection so the added environmental pressure was making my face feel and look like it got punched.

A Mommy Beat Down …

My bedroom. 8:30 am. Mommy looking like a wet, colorblind clown. That’s when the mommy beat down began. It was like a scene from a horror movie where rats are crawling all over a corpse like they can’t get enough of it. That’s how my children were as I attempted to look like a normal human being in order to taxi their little bodies to the library where they would terrorize the librarian and embarrass me. Ever have one of those moments when you want to plead with strangers that these children are not wild animals and you ARE a good mother?

Ever have one of those days where everywhere you turned were perfect mommies. Around every corner was another kid asking for a snack or a cartoon to be turned on. Fights ensuing left and right. Messes on top of messes. The words “MOM!” echoing through your enlarged sinus head … pounding, pounding, pounding.

I was getting a full on mommy beat down.

Ever have one of those days? Where you find yourself in your bedroom just screaming because it was all you could do from crying? I was sick and felt like crap wanting to cry into a hole to blow my nose and watch crappy television. Instead my kids were calling me from downstairs to debate some endless, pointless quarrel between the three while simultaneously asking for something to eat and do. Did I mention that I had literally been up stairs for maybe 78 seconds before they discovered I was gone from their sight.

A Mommy Beat Down …

The rest of the day played out as the opening hours of the morning had. Chaotic and a mess. Too many fights. Not enough sleep. Too much cereal eaten. Too much television on. Not enough educational play. Too much of me yelling. No one listening at all.  Lots of “worst mom ever” feelings. Lots of feelings of my children are out of control. Ever have one of those days? A mommy beat down day.





Legos Legos (F-ing) Everywhere

Taking a different spin on inspiration I asked my son what I should write about, he said a song about Legos. Wish granted.

Legos Legos (F-ing) Everywhere

Legos in my underwear

I found some in my bed

Your brother threw one at my head

Legos Legos stuck to my socks

Feeling like I am walking on rocks

I tried to hide your 990 piece case, but no matter what, you find my hiding place

I wish you’d get over this phase, maybe you’ll pick up making football plays

Legos Legos coming out of my (damn) ears

Little plastic blocks bringing me to tears

Legos green, red, blue and white

No matter the color of Legos, they cause you and your siblings to fight

I want to light these little squares of doom on fire

Fun for hours? Lego Company, you’re a liar

Legos Legos (F-ing)everywhere

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Top 8 phrases I say to get my kids to do what I want … (Don’t Judge.)

As my children gain the ability to talk I am reminded of the top 8 phrases I use to keep them in line. I’m pretty sure you also have a bag of your own tricky phrases too.  Judge if you must, because I have said it before and I will say it again > I am not the perfect mommy but damn I’m clever when I need to be (at least when it comes to out smarting a toddler).

1. Television isn’t good for your brain or your body. Whenever I find myself not winning the battle of my clan wanting to watch television I pull this phrase out. I overheard my eldest using the phrase on his dad the other day, proof that it’s doing it’s job and making an impact. 

2. Eating too much sugar will make your teeth fall out. Believe me, I get it.  Ice cream, cake, donut holes and cookies are amazingly delightful goodness in your mouth. HOWEVER, why is it kids go beyond the limit of moderation into a realm of over consumption wanting more than what seems humanly possible????!! Sometimes getting them to stop asking for more takes a bit of scare tactic and that is EXACTLY when I use these words. There’s something about picturing their selves without teeth that makes them stop asking for more sugar.

3. People who hit go to jail. I don’t spank my kiddos and they don’t live in a household where they see anyone hit one another, so I’m not sure where this expression of aggression coming in the form of hitting comes from. After I figured out saying things like “No one hits you, why would you do that?” or “Do you go around hitting your friends?” wasn’t working I took a different approach and simply told them that people who hit other people go to jail. That turned the situation right around > my eldest began to tear up and say he didn’t want to go to jail with bad people and robbers. Needless to say, the hitting situation was squashed. 

4. Your new mom will be here in an hour, I’m going to go pack my bags. This one I do feel guilty about, but when you have lost all hope sometimes you gotta pull out the big guns. There have been about three instances where my eldest (a five year-old boy) has turned into 15 year-old teen girl screaming and crying at me over something incredibly insignificant (like the shape of a piece of cereal). During these times he will not listen to reason, nor finds it possible to retreat to his bedroom to cool off. Instead he insists he is in the right, throwing his whole body into the tantrum literally kicking objects and relatives in the process. During these times when all words seem to be blocked from his hearing, he has heard me say this phrase loud and clear. He instantly dropped the teenage girl act and focused on how much he loved me and didn’t want me to leave. Don’t judge.

5. God (Santa, Easter Bunny, Elf on the Shelf etc.)is watching you.  Do I really need to explain this one? I have heard many parents over the years, not to mention cashiers, waiters and other service peeps say these words to keep a kid in line. Sometimes the higher power beings are the ones who get the most respect in the eyes of the child. Unfortunately, we parents, the insignificant dwellers, do not fall into this category. 

6. I see you at ALL times, because I am your mom. Every mom knows the sound of a certain cabinet being opened or the crackle of a bag being broken into. This superpower hearing allows us to “see” things not with our eyes but our ears. I know when something is being touched when it shouldn’t be or when a cry is from being hit by your brother rather than from a fall. My kids always look at me in amazement when I catch them in the act or question their whereabouts asking, “How did you know mom?”

7. I have magic powers. Often my children have sooooo many questions about how I did something that I almost feel as if I am under interrogation on an episode of CSI. I’ve found that by simply saying that I have magic powers, when it comes to things like baby making and where I got “that ice cream”, it works to stop the questions.

8. That’s how the machine made itWhy? Why? Why? … This one worded question is the worst. It can be repeated in an hour conversation with a little one 50 times in response to each answer you give. Out of frustration from a conversation about an oven this phrase came out of my mouth. It’s worked ever since when dealing with an inanimate object and the dreaded “Why?”.

Please feel free to share your top phrases to keep your clan in line! I’d love to add to my ammunition.


Holding a Guitar or Holding a Jockstrap?

There’s something about a musically inclined man that just makes my heart pound. I am an avid The Voice watcher NOT because I enjoy new talent (I happen to hate American Idol) but for the men that grace the judges chairs. I’m all about Pharrell, Adam Levine, Blake Shelton and Usher.  The world around me goes silent when these men appear on my screen, their jokes seem extra funny while their clothes extra cool.  Let me explain …

I prefer a guitar rather than a jockstrap.

A true cult follower of Save By the Bell, I don’t recall Zach Morris ever being very athletic, I do however remember his debut as head singer and lead guitar player for a band called Zack Attack. My heart belonged to Zach not sweaty Jerry curl Slater – the one wearing the jockstrap. Ever since I can remember dating, or even having a crush, I preferred the artistic ones over the athletic ones. Even as I was dating the athletic ones I was probably staring at the artistic ones across the rooms. Something so magnetic about this breed of men that I found myself instantly drawn. Don’t get me started on JT, the one and only Justin Timberlake that is.   I almost used the heads of a group of teenagers and 21 year-olds as stairs to the stage when my husband gifted me with tickets to see Timberlake some years back.  As I watch Justin on SNL or other random broadcasts I find myself laughing extra hard at his jokes while I flip my hair and smile saying out loud to no one in particular, “Oh that JT, he is just so funny AND talented.”

Funny that I should fall in love and marry a man that is an athlete and is 100% dedicated to loving sports. I can tell you that the part of him holding the jockstrap is not the part that drew me to him 12 years ago. In fact he was able to close the deal with me as a wild and crazy 20 year-old because he could play the guitar. Lucky for him his roommate taught him how to play the guitar a short time before meeting me. Lucky for him I met him when partying took presidente over sports. I knew he was a tennis state champ, was a maniac on the soccer field and had a knowledge of every sport invented, but who cared when he knew how to play “Iris” by the Goo Goo Dolls, not to mention Satellite from Dave Matthews (don’t forget this is early 2000’s). The guitar in his hands is what made me crush on that drunk college kid with spiky hair not his old trophies on his dad’s office shelf.

To this day my husband still complains that I don’t appreciate his athleticism, it’s not that I don’t because I do, it’s just that I tend to prefer a guitar over a jockstrap. He says he could take Adam Levine in a fight … I’m sure he could but could he take him in a sing off?? I think not 🙂

What’s your preference guitar or jockstrap?



Mommy Got a Fitbit and Got Wise

Wife: “I want a Fitbit”

Husband: “I want one too, let’s do it.”

Fast forward one date night evening  later and my husband and I were the new parents of two Fitbit Charges. At the beginning we were competitive in the first days of ownership, seeing who was racking up the better feedback but we have gone our separate ways (probably because I was kicking his ass). Of course my husband is using his the right way. He’s using it to track his movement and calories for health purposes. I on the other hand, I’m using it for a get out of mental health jail card.

Being techy dumb, I have yet to even skim what this thing can do. But I have learned something …

It’s okay to sit on your ass.

Before having kids and even while I was pregnant I was like the Energizer Bunny. I was crushing Pinterest crafts, completing full workouts morning and night, staying up late to watch bad movies and fulfilling my American citizen duties catching up on the lives of reality television stars. Now, 5 years and three kiddos later I’m lucky if I have enough energy to lift the remote at 8:30 pm. I’ve been totally pissed off by this fact. I feel like I should be getting more done or living it up after my babies go to bed. But I just don’t have the energy to do it.

And guess what my little wrist hugging friend the Fitbit told me?

It’s okay to sit on your ass.

I got my first Fitbit report card analyzing my first week. The days I don’t even hit the treadmill I am racking in over 10k steps and the days I do hit the synthetic rubber sidewalk I’m well onto 13k. The calorie burn on my average day is insane. Who the hell needs Crossfit when I’m lugging around twin toddlers on my hips and climbing stairs double duty in order to put not one but two minions down for naps and three little Halperins down for bed.

It’s okay to sit on your ass.

At over 13,500 steps last Friday and 33 flights of stairs climbed … you bet your first-born that I was tired by 8 pm. That doesn’t even take into account sweating my ass off as I twist into limb bending poses in a 102 degree yoga studio (for some reason the Fitbit can’t handle the quantitative calculation in regards to what yoga does to the body which I will address soon). Before my little Fitbit friend came into my life I would have felt like I wasn’t doing enough or that I should be doing something besides soaking up what my DVR was holding. However, I now feel like I’ve been given permission to sit on my ass and feel okay about it rather than feeling like lazy mommy.

I also like the sleep tracker. The Fitbit provides a chart that breaks down the quality of my sleep by tracking all movements while I am alseep. A restless state of sleep indicates that I went from a very restful position with little movement to movement, such as turning over in bed. This doesn’t necessarily mean that I was fully awake, but indicates that I  was not getting the most restful sleep possible.  When the tracker indicates that I was moving so much that restful sleep would not be possible, my sleep graph will indicate that I was awake. From what my graph is telling me I need to hit the sack earlier to get a better quality of sleep.

Keeping up with little people is one tough job. I wish I had my Fitbit handy when a woman asked me a couple of years back “What do you do ALL day as a SAHM?” Or maybe she would have thought that I was just spending my days walking in place and treading up and down the stairs at my house??? However, this little black wristband has given me a whole new perspective on daily life. I’m not to feel guilty if my butt hits the couch the second all three minions are fast asleep. It’s a time of regenerating.

But wait there’s more …

So just like any other friend, if Fitbit is telling me something, what is Fitbit NOT telling me???

Well as I mentioned above it’s not friends with my best friend Yoga. That’s right when I am drenched in sweat while a shirtless hipster dude busts out headstands next to me in yoga class my Fitbit seems to be taking a break somewhere outside that 1,000 degree studio. That’s a big bummer since I take two to three classes per week and also do an at home daily practice. (Yes you can manually enter in exercise data for different activities … but who’s got time for that? I didn’t pay over a hundred dollars to become this thing’s personal assistant.)

It’s also not telling me the truth behind how many steps and calories I am burning when I am pushing a stroller or a grocery cart. You read right, the Fitbit has some problems capturing steps when the arm on which you wear it is fairly steady–as when you are gripping the handle of a stroller or shopping cart …. that might be okay for a character from Gossip Girl  but not for this crazy ass mother who has three kids and tends to be pushing some sort of Fred Flinstone mobile (think bike with kiddie trailer or Target two-seater cart) or stroller 65% of my waking hours.

Yes I could have paid the extra cash for the Charge HR or Surge but as a mommy with a budget it seemed that the mid-level band was the right way to go with the mid-level sticker price. Also, when I really think about my heart rate in yoga and lifting weights I’m not sure if it’s going that bonkers to really make a huge difference on the feedback my Fitbit is giving back to me.

So when it comes down to it I have a love/hate relationship with my little friend. I’ll be trusting in it’s data but take it as an estimation while applying some basic common sense to my level of exertion. It’s like one of those women you meet in a mommy group that tells you lots of things but keeps a lot of things “secret” or tells you little white lies on a regular basis. But I have to say unlike those moms who I’d usually throw out, I’ll be keeping the Fitbit because it breathes some competition into my relationship with my spouse and also tells me that it’s okay to sit on my ass every once in a while.




Puberty?? No Thanks.

I see little boys and girls at that awkward stage of being not yet a teen but nowhere near being a cute kid anymore. I find myself holding my breath at the mere thought of my little ones someday hitting that age. I find myself thinking back to my own existence during those mutant years and wonder how I ever survived.

I was an odd little creature. A head full of dark brown banana curls topped with feathered bangs. I remember during 6th grade my mom had pulled back half of that dark horse mane into a giant sunflower barrette, because what’s better than thick dark hair down to your butt then putting a big ass yellow flower on top of it? To match the hair, my dark eyes were encased by dark thick brows. If Encino Man had a baby and she turned 12 that was me. Unlike my 6th grade best friend who had blonde hair, blue eyes and a freckled nose I resembled Toula Portokalos from my Big Fat Greek Wedding. If my memory serves me right  Mattel doesn’t manufacture Toula Barbies.

My whole life I’ve had a small mole on my face, for some reason our culture calls these “beauty marks” for a 12-year-old girl this is called “the end of the world”. I remember being completely upset about this thing on my face and my grandma trying to console me. She said to me, “Honey, I have the same thing but just on my upper thigh.” I responded with, “So you’re telling me that you have, what I have on my face, on your butt?!?!”

I also grew up during that era of grunge and R&B when oversized jeans and tiny tops were all the rage. I was obsessed with TLC and would belt out Waterfalls day and night. Though I longed to pair my baggy Mudd jeans with a baby doll top my 6′ 2″ dad would not allow it, instead I remember donning a Cocoa-Cola polar bear sweatshirt with my billowing denim pants on New Year’s Eve my 6th grade year. Yikes.

To make my life even “better” Friends hit the television waves and the Rachael doo became the thing you just did … unless you have thick dark curly hair. But being the rebel I am, I did it anyways and to my horror ended my 6th grade year looking like a preteen Jewish boy on his way to his Bar Mitzvah. (Please see proof in featured photograph, highlighting the cut with awesome sunglasses and Bugs Bunny tee – WTF??)

Thankfully I made it fully through puberty, learned that fads aren’t for everyone, bought a pair of tweezers and gained a sense of humor to deal with growing up. It’s also possible that because of my suffering as a replica of a small cave man during my preteen years that my daughter came out with bright blue eyes, a head of sandy blonde hair and perfect eyebrows. I guess the puberty gods figured I had paid the price enough for two and gave her a get out of “middle school hell” free card.

However, whatever comfort I find with my daughter I am quickly shaken back into a horror of what the future will bring as I look at my two boys who are already laughing and grabbing their penises resembling another type of cave man. 12 years old seems so far yet so close. Puberty?? No thanks.

2015-05-15 08.57.48Toula


I Promise I am NOT a Helicopter Mom (but …)

I promise I am not a helicopter mom.

Hitting the park on a daily basis for a dose of vitamin D and to keep my mind sane from all the hormones that are maturing in my household keeps my body in constant motion. I wish my kids would leave me alone at the park, but no matter the venue, I am THAT helicopter mom. Not because I want to be but because my kids choose to say “Fuck you” to the sign that says 5 to 12 years old. They want to play big and climb large. They want to zip line not swing. They want to run down slides and jump off the side. They want to basically rip apart the playground set.

I promise I am not a helicopter mom but …

I do promise that your little boy that keeps approaching my middle son will get his blocked knock off by my little meathead man. He shared a womb for 9 months with his twin sister. The effect of sharing such tight quarters has caused him to not be very fond of sharing. I stand in close proximity, not in fear of what your son will do to mine, but what pain my son will cause to yours if his toy is touched.

I promise I am not a helicopter mom but …

My eldest is sort of a weirdo. He’s in this stage of just randomly falling off high structures and then rolling around in mulch as he yells “AHHH!!! Whoa- Whoa!!” So, you see, even though I am not a helicopter mom I need to be in sight to bare my teeth and through a clenched smile whisper “Stop it!!” without moving my lips so he understands that his display of weirdo is not acceptable in public.

I promise I am not a helicopter mom but …

My littlest minion has looks that deceive. Tiny with big blue eyes she fools the cleverest of children and adults. Her nickname is Tonya Harding so that should give you some insight. I’ve seen her move faster than the speed of light with more force than Sasquatch as she clotheslines one of her brothers. I need to remain in close proximity to prevent any type of open wound.

I promise I am not a helicopter mom but …

Though I trust the local librarians completely, I do not trust my twins. They have tactics that would put ninjas to shame as they are capable of taking out whole shelves of library books and children’s DVDs in one swoop. So, yes I would like to sit idly by reading the newest best seller but I can’t allow my sweet twosome to possibly waste their college funds on replacing a rack of used DVDs or  a shelving unit of dog-eared picture books. (And possibly taking the librarian out in the process).

I promise I am not a helicopter mom but …

I just don’t want to pay your hospital bill or have a situation where lawyers will be involved.

I promise I am not a helicopter mom, I’m just a Halperin mom.

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Mother’s Day as a Mommy.


Mother’s Day is coming. As a daughter I have celebrated Mother’s Day since the time I left the womb. Now with three little ones of my own I celebrate Mother’s Day as not only a daughter but also a mommy.

Newsflash, Mother’s Day as a mommy ain’t no picnic.

As I think back to my very first Mother’s Day I am swept up by a dream like wind and placed upon Cloud 9. As a new mommy my first born was only three weeks old and I was encased in a dome of love and first baby daze. I could have been in a prison camp and would have still relished in that May day celebrating mommyhood. Now as a mommy of three older tribe members (but still my babies) there are days I feel as if I AM IN a prison camp.

Now I want to avoid all the mundane that comes along with motherhood. I don’t want to change another diaper, give another bath or suffer through another bedtime routine.  But I guess if you want the Mother’s Day presents you gotta deal with the crap and dirt … literally. Though the presents are the cherry on top of the holiday sundae, the typical Mother’s Day is also one in which I want no part of. I don’t want to attend a brunch with 100 others families while their kids and my kids scream of cause a scene. I don’t want to be ushered along in a shopping mall or boutique.

So you may be saying “Jesus lady, what is it that you want then for Mother’s Day???”

What I really want is a time machine to take me back to those Mother’s Day when my babies were still infants and I was in the safety of my cozy love dome. I was free to read, write, and surf the internet and television freely. Where I am needed for all the right reasons (snuggling and kissing boo-boos) and not for all the wrong reasons (snacks and dirty diapers). Where laying in bed and reading a book out loud is just perfect rather than a waste of time in comparison to toting children to camps and practices. To be covered in spit-up where no judgement exists only the soft breath of my children against my skin. I want eat what I want, do what I want and not worry about anyone or anything. I don’t want a three ring circus. I just want to be celebrated by enjoying what I celebrate most in life … me.

I hope you weren’t thinking I was going to say “my children” Sorry, I love my kids but damnit it’s my fricking day, so back off. 🙂

How being a Mommy has prepared me to be a “Survivor” contestant.

My husband and I are Survivor  fans and never miss an episode. We often, say at least once during a viewing, that we never could “survive”. These convos sparked an idea for an article. However when I sat down to write one on how I wasn’t cut out for Survivor I came to realize that in fact I am one hell of a winning candidate! Here’s what I discovered about being a Mommy has prepared me to be a Survivor contestant.

1. Every day I must barter with others in my clan for food, alliance and peace.

2. I am constantly in a state of a challenge. Whether it be the monkey bars at the park, balancing a toddler on each hip while pushing a grocery cart with my belly button or out running our white rat dog to the back door I’ve acquired the speed, balance and agility to possibly win all challenges for rewards and advantages.

3. I am faced with bugs and reptiles on a daily basis. Having little ones with an interest for all living and breathing things I am always faced with an assortment of creatures. Not to mention along with these creepy crawlers I am surrounded by three wild animals that run purely on emotions and hunger. Therefore jungle inhabitants are no worry.

4. I haven’t gone to the bathroom by myself in 5 years, what’s another 40 days?

5. I do not shower on a regular basis and I’ve convinced myself that it’s good for the hair and skin. With it being just the norm within a large group, I’d fit right in.

6. I am “sleep-challenged” > I have not had a restful night sleep in 6 years and sleep next to a mammal that makes loud snorting noises throughout the night. Bring on the tarps and log beds … as long as there is no little minions yelling from cribs it all sounds like a recipe for 8 hours of solid sleep for the sleep deprived.

7. I have perfected the art of looking put together with a top knot, a few articles of clothing, a sun-kissed face and coconut oil as beauty product.

8. For the first year of the twins life I survived on leftover rice cereal which is pretty damn close to just rice.

9. Answering to mommy, mom and ma 12 hours out of the 24 in a day, I would for sure transition well into having a nickname like “Momma B” or “Ma Bear” on the island.

10. The immunity necklace resembles the majority of “jewelry” my five-year-old manufactures for me so I know that it would look pretty awesome against my collar bone.

11. Having gone through giving birth and a combined total of three years of breastfeeding, my goods have been seen once or twice in public. I’ll do my laundry in the nude, no issues here.

12. I’d get on the good side of many just with my shelter building skills. Sheets, chairs, boxes and pillows … you name it I’ve built forts out of it. Bring on the banana leaves and twigs.


I Love To Eat Hospital Food.

I love to eat hospital food just like I find room service at a hotel orgasmic.

Just thinking about pudding cups, individual servings of coffee and sterile wrapped pastries makes my mouth water and my breath slow.

I am equally passionate about sterile starched sheets that you will find in hospital suites and upscale hotels. I also enjoy individually wrapped rolls of toilet paper lined up like paper soldiers waiting for my use. These tissue soldiers stand at attention under white stiff and sanitary bath linens.

With the push of a button or the dial of a number I can beckon my room to be cleaned or an extra pillow to be brought.

I have enjoyed the birth of my children with 99% of the reason being unconditional love and the other 1% being the gratification of staying in a hospital room.

No one is looking for me. I can lay in a bed and no one questions why. I am brought food and drink with care only to be asked if I would like more. I can hide while watching Maury Povich or Family Feud eleven times in a row without having to share the remote. I do not have to clean up after a single soul or even worry about my own messes. There isn’t a schedule to be kept or tiny humans to fight with or carry to naps. I can stay up late, sleep in and take naps. I don’t have to shower but when I do no one comes looking for me or stands with their nose pushed against the glass. I have no laundry to wash or fold, along with the absence of dirty dishes or dust. Not to mention no one questions my integrity if I do not answer their call, text or email rather they just leave me alone. 

For these euphoric reasons and more, if I were president I would make it mandatory for mothers to have a hospital stay once a month for physical and especially mental health.


Hospital 1