Don’t Wear Khaki …


Living in the dark and light of life and finding the miracle in each. It’s about embracing those dark days and those dirty honest moments with the faith that there is light, faith and a divine plan in all of the muck and bad feelings. It’s about remaining hopeful, kind and full of wonder through it all. I call these moments, SOUL MOMENTS. Moments when we find a way to be shaken and rattled in order to be grateful of things that might be ordinary, but are still full of wonder when you take the time to fully pay attention to and appreciate them.

We sometimes need others to share those soul moments with us so we remember that they are all around us. That the light is all around us, even when we are in pitch black darkness. So I share with you a moment of darkness, mentally and emotionally as a woman, wife and mother but was able to grasp that ray of light in my soul moments that were laid out before me.

So on this particular day my dark and light were these feelings:

Dark = ordinary = boring = khaki = forgettable loser

While my light was: Light = bright = bold = hero with a legacy

Since I know of you all probably have visited such a place of where I came to meet my darkness, let me paint a picture for you. A local barnyard type of viewing and petting zoo. Think ducks, pigs, goats, ponies, owls, bunnies, gift shop and picnic area within an enclosed space that your children cannot escape from. For this piece of storytelling we will call this place ABC ZOO. Let me state first, since many of you are probably petting zoo lovers, that I am not a hater of ABC Zoo and do own a membership to the so-called ABC Zoo…

HOWEVER …. On this particular Saturday I was not an ABC lover. Since the moment I woke up it was playing out to be a dark day … the weekend before I had been in Chicago with JUST my husband for four wonderful adult days where I did what I wanted, when I wanted while I wore adult clothes while eating adult food while doing adult things with my adult husband. But then this adult came back to reality on a Sunday afternoon and  jumped right into a week of VBS, dance classes and giving all of myself to everyone else. So when my eyes popped open that morning I was less than enthused to pack up my clan and head to the zoo. I don’t make a habit of hanging out there on the weekends, but my eldest Braxton was a founder of the Pokemon craze and had been asking to hit up the Pokemon Go stops at the zoo all week. I decided that making my husband suffer along with me would be a good soul moment for him, so we had decided on Saturday morning for a Pokemon pit stop.

When we arrived it started to drizzle which always makes me and my kids happy … said no one ever. When we got through the entrance we immediately logged into the App to find Pokemon for our eldest. This is where everything went downhill for me.

The GPS of the damn app wouldn’t catch … I tried, my husband tried and we tried and we tried with no luck which caused a pissed off first grader. Super. So now what exactly was the purpose of our trip to ABC Zoo then??? With three-year old twins they found a purpose … the actual zoo itself.  So off we went. It being a Saturday it was busy and there were lots of ABC Zoo imposters that didn’t know the lay of the land. I was in a seriously bad mommy mood and was not equipped with the patience to allow strangers to stop in front of me or cut my kids in line. As the rain lifted and the humidity swept in I also was surrounded by not only my sticky skin and the sticky skin of strangers but also the thick muggy smell of animals and hay. As we made our way from the duck pond and into the barn, all three of my little ones began asking for snacks and the echoes of children screaming and parents bickering overtook my senses as we made our way into the tunnel. I felt myself twitch and flashes of Elaine from the episode of Seinfeld when she gets stuck in the subway took over my brain and I too wish I could scream “Shut up! Shut up!”

As we went deeper into the hot dark barn I literally thought I was going to have a nervous breakdown when I saw two parents yell at their kid for touching the drinking fountain. “Don’t! Touch that! IT’s germy! You’ll get sick!” immediately grabbing his hands and dousing them with hand sanitizer. Meanwhile my kids had their snack in one hand and with the other were picking up hay from the wet ground feeding the sheep as they stuffed the rest of their snack in their mouths. Sigh. The amount of parents seemed to grow in number within seconds and I found myself being suffocated by khaki wearing humans with smartphones glowing blue in their faces as they talked about the latest characters on Bubble Guppies. That’s when I lost it. I started to lose my breath as I thought this is not where I am supposed to be. I am supposed to be in the city. I am supposed to be having conversations about art, sex and food. I hate khaki. I hate the smell of animals. I am supposed to be writing a book and rubbing elbows with the cool cats of the literacy world. I’m not cut out for this! I’m supposed to be a hero leaving a legacy of change not a path of snack crumbs. The black cloud that had been looming over my head was now an all engulfing storm cloud and I thought to myself that I could make a run for it! I could run out of that barn and for the main street. I could catch a ride to Chicago with it’s bright lights and dreamy people. I could break out of this suburban jail and be FREE. Talk about dark right? Yes, I am a mom and yes I was thinking my life was a jail at that exact moment. Talk about shame.

But then something happened … one by one my kids began speaking my thoughts out loud. “These people are loud. “

“This place smells.”

“I am hot.”

“Those kids are mean.”

“Let’s go home.”

“This is boring.” 

I looked at my husband and he nodded in agreement as we all half jokingly and me fully serious in an all out gallop headed past the caged animals to the exit. Just as I saw hope and light as we neared the gates to the parking lot my husband stopped our little clan in front of one of those tornado experience machines that you (as mean mommy) are always telling them no to. He asked if they wanted to experience a real tornado. What was HE DOING???? I was almost free! Should I just leave them? But, I too stopped. more from the shock that he was actually dispensing two dollar bills into the damn tornado machine, but the result ended with me missing out on my jail break.

Once the air began to blow within the man-made cylinder, my husband broke out into an all out stripper dance tease lifting his shirt behind the plexi glass as my three little ones danced around him and screamed with joy. Because see, my husband doesn’t care who is watching he doesn’t care about the opinions of others but he cares about me and making me smile. I laughed and as they all proceeded out of the machine they grabbed me with their sticky snack hands and hugged me. As I looked into the windows of the gift shop, Our reflections were anything but khaki … my eldest son got caught up with the hobby of tye dying so he and my husband were donning their latest creations of bold colors. MY youngest son, into anything sporty, wore a bright flourescent blue and green outfit. while my perfect little girl was dressed in her favorite color from head to toe … screaming pink. And I, myself, wore a polka dot shirt at the age of 33. My little girl slipped her hand in mine and they all yelled to go home … my thoughts exactly and this was a definite soul moment. I had my people! My people got me and my people understood me. But it gets even better …

what really put the cherry on the sundae was when I put my youngest son down for his nap a couple of hours later.  I sometimes squish his cheeks and recite how much I love him and that he’s my baby in one of those annoying Mommy voices that can only come from having so much love for one tiny being. This time he grabbed my face and said, “My little mommy Halperin, the baby’s mommy, my HERO.” — Talk about S-O-U-L MOMENT.

Though it had been easy for me to be enveloped in the darkness of the mundane, boring and khaki of life, when I looked a little harder through the dark I was able to find the light, I was able to find the wonder and hope in those soul moments. My life may not be text book glamorous or thrilling but it is filled with bright lights, bold ideas and colors. I do have a fan club, while I create a legacy and… I am somebody’s hero.

 (P.S. I shared this story with my MOPS group at our kick-off meeting this September)

I’m Not Your Babysitter

All three of my kids participate in a soccer program. I chose the program based on the fact that all three, though divided into separate age groups, would be playing at the same time frame. This not only provided less chauffering and scheduling but also meant an hour of breathing time for me. It meant an afternoon time slot where coaches would be in charge of my children rather than me.

This is why I became so annoyed with another mother. She was messing up my “alone time”. She was inadvertently invading my space. How so? Through her C-H-I-L-D.

As I sat enjoying the fall weather that finally enveloped the Midwestern states, I sat back with a book in hand with one eye on the pages and my other “mom eye” on my kids as they trotted across the soccer fields. Finally … the kids were bought into the play and were leaving me alone (with the added benefit of exercise and team camaraderie). Suddenly a shadow appeared over my book. My space was being shared with another small body, one that did not come out of my body.

A little boy around the age of two was mumbling on about the tree that I had set up my mom camp next to. At first I said hello and was nice as pie to the little guy. But then after about 3 LONG minutes it was apparent that he was not leaving the space that I had designated as my territory.  What made matters worse is that this little boy had snot cascading out of his nose and past his top lip. It wasn’t the clear kind that is caused by running in cold weather, rather it was the thick slimy green kind that can only mean an infection. Along with his constant chatter was the on going smack against the tree that he continued to conduct like a Mozart of the forest. He had acquired two fallen sticks in both hands and was slapping the side of the tree with both again, again and AGAIN.

After another three long minutes of annoyance I stated to the little person that he should probably go find his mommy. After looking at me with green boogers slipping into his mouth, he gave one last slap to the tree and galloped over to his mother that was standing with three others as they babbled on about  _______ (please enter whatever boring subject you’d like). He pulled and pulled AND pulled on her jacket when she finally took notice of him. I’m not sure exactly what he said but she looked my way and gave a wave and a smile. “At last” I thought, “Peace and quiet — take care of your own kid.”

I settled back into my spot and within in moments that snot monster was back, mumbling louder and hitting harder. I looked past him at his mother who just gave the same wave and nod. “Um, WTF??? Are you serious? Lady, I am not your babysitter.” I wanted to take her waving hand and wipe it across her face to erase that clueless smile off her suburban face.

Rather than demonstrating an act of violence in the suburbs of the Midwest against an obviously clueless mother, I picked myself up from my cozy spot. I then used the opportunity to get closer to the sidelines of each of my children’s practices. Ping-ponging between the Terrific – 3’s and the First grade scrimmagers.

Now when I reflect back on the annoyance and the mindless mother …. maybe I was the one who was clueless. Maybe the stick swinging, germ carrying little dude was actually sent as a wake-up call from a greater power to have THIS mother focus more on her kids rather than the book in her hand. Maybe my little people needed to see me fully in IT, completely in the moment cheering them on and giving a thumbs up when their tiny little feet managed to kick a ball bigger than their heads into the goal. Maybe the banging of the stick was a banging on my head to get my ass up and walk over to see my growing first grader in a competitive foot-fight as he ran full speed as a 6 year old … because one day he’ll be 7 then 8 then 9 then 12 then 16 then 21 then married ….

Well played universe, well played. I hate snot, I hate germs, I hate loud smacking noises over and over …. what better way to get me fully in the game, the game of LIFE that is.

Strip Club Manager.


Add Strip Club Manager to my resume.

That’s right. I’ve been spending my days basically working in a topless bar of miniature people.

I thought I had heard it all and seen it all as our days of butts finally began to dwindle to an end. Little did I know what was lurking around the corner. Little fleshy buttons were around the bend. That’s right, nipples.

My kids are obsessed with nipples.

My household has turned into one big topless franchise. It started with my eldest and the phenomena quickly attached to my younger son.  Wearing shirts was decided as being overrated according to my three children. My six-year-old went thirty-six hours wearing no shirt.  The streak was only broken in order to put on a shirt for school which was quickly stripped off the second he entered the house.  Not being sexist, my daughter caught on to the trend. Now you will not only see two little boys running laps around our yard with their skinny lanky bodies in the sun but you will also find my petite munchkin of a daughter peddling along on her pink tricycle … topless.

This whole no shirt thing  was a battle I decided to not pick.  After all,  it would be the only time in their lives that this nude behavior would be accepted. Have at it little Halperins.  As always my children proved my parenting choices wrong. Though seemingly innocent the whole situation unfortunately took an expected turn … for the worst and the weird.

As I prepared another gourmet home cooked meal (or whatever fit into a crock pot that day) my three growing bundles of joy ran through the house topless. Shrieking in chaotic joy as they chased after one another giggling.  I heard my youngest son yell “Kiss my nipples!” as he cupped his hands over his chest running from his brother and sister. I stopped mid-cooking-utensil in hand not sure if I had heard him right. I was reassured that my ears hadn’t fooled me when he proceeded to yell again “Kiss my nipples!!!” as he ran past me with my other two on his tail. I spun around and entered the living room behind them as I barked “What are you saying???”  and without hesitation he responded “We are playing kiss my nipples.”  I calmly asked where he had heard about this game and he said his brother. I turned my attention to my eldest asking where in the world had he learned this from and he said … his brain. Not having a chance to think this whole thing through I quickly broke into explanation as to why this was not a game that should be played. Like an out-of-body experience I heard myself say “Listen, only married people kiss one another’s nipples. Nipples are private parts that no one should be touching or kissing unless you are married like Mommy and Daddy.  Nipples are special parts of our bodies that should only be touched when we are washing in the shower.”  As I heard myself say the words I knew it was a possibility that I could be opening a door to a whole other conversation or possibly an interesting story being told to teachers at school.  My fears dissipated as they shook their heads yes and replied in unison, “Okay Mom” with no further questions asked. (Nor have I had any interesting calls from teachers … yet).

Though the nipple games have stopped and my daughter is choosing to wear a shirt more I was reassured that the strip club status of our home is still in full swing this morning.  My youngest son walked into the kitchen, topless, with a pair of sunglasses around his tiny narrow chest exclaiming “Look mom! I’m covering my nipples like you said!”  and quickly ran out the door to join his topless brother and sister in the yard.

I can only imagine what’s next.




Suburban Findings: 6 Who Are You Steps.


The follow up to  Who Arrrreee Y-O-U?? 6 Steps to Finding Out

The suburban scientific findings to what happens when the six “who are you” steps are applied to the common crazy lady.

First a brief step recap:

#1.  ASK.


#3.  F-U-N.




Second, the outcomes:

#1. I asked those closest to me for a one word description of who I was:

My eldest son: sweet. My youngest son: strong with muscles. My daughter: good coloring. My two closest friends: Real and tenacious. My mom: Inspiring. My little sister:  My husband: Stunning.

I took those descriptive words in, let them settle into the crevices of my brain folds and then reflected. When it came down to the nitty-gritty it turned out that everything I wanted to be, I actually was in the eyes of those that really mattered. I wanted to be a mom that was tender and sweet. I wanted to lead a life that was real and tenaciously productive. I wanted to inspire others with my writing, thoughts and actions.  I wanted to be physically and mentally fit. By asking those that were closest to me with the clearest insight of my true self their answers gave me a reality check that I had been wasting so much time beating myself up for the personality traits I thought I lacked and the personal goals I considered too far to reach. In reality I carry all the traits that I have admired in others and my goals are actually accomplishments. Why was it so hard for me to see that? 

#2. I certainly feel my best when engaging in tasks that I enjoy, but also grow from. When I am accomplishing goals I feel on top of the world, because I am being productive in what I set out to do and recognizing it all at the same time. I think my confidence and knowledge of who I was took the biggest hit when I found out that as a woman I couldn’t just get pregnant “on my own”. This huge part of my identity sort of just was there one day and not there the next. I felt as if I was a failure. I failed myself and I failed my husband. In my eyes I was a broken woman, unable to have babies.  My body had betrayed me. Suddenly my plan was no longer in my control. Suddenly, I was battling with a problem that I had no knowledge of. It wasn’t fair.  Enter >>> Uncertainty of everything and self. Though six years and three babies later,  it’s unfortunate that I realize my confidence has yet to move on from that place of uncertainty. At least I know where the start took place.

#3. F-U-N. I thought about myself in college … I had a lot of fun then, but the majority of what was fun then was reckless fun. Did I want to be reckless again? NO. Was drinking large amounts of booze still fun to me? NO. So I went another decade back to when I was a child. My findings proved better during that era. My interests were still very much introvert-ish, writing, reading, exploring nature whether it be a field, beach or forest. I loved being near family with a small tight group of friends. I relished in experiencing really good comfort food after getting my hands in the baking or cooking process of it all. The bright lights and busyness of the city caught my attention and made my imagination dance. I was obsessed with laughter. Had an interest in crime and anything media related to it (think Law & Order or Forensic Files).

So I started writing again like a mad woman. Jotting notes, writing articles, leaving unfinished ideas on my computer screen, in the margins of magazines and in the pages of 3 different notebooks.  Reading books two at a time, mostly non-fiction one on Paleo, one on meditation one on happiness. I took to yoga in classes and on my mat at home. I planted some plants and puddled around in the yard with the kids. We are booking a trip to Chicago as a couple to experience the bright lights, the hustle and the bustle as adults. I’m doing a whole lot better at declining invites to things that make me shudder and altogether avoiding situations that may lead to me having to engage in some social activity that wouldn’t be my idea of F-U-N.Focusing on the friendships that scream closeness rather than those relationships that scream surface.

#4. This was sort of a cheat when it came to me. I basically had all the same interests that I did as a child but wasn’t necessarily making them a priority, nor was I shouting from the roof tops about them.  How could I when Facebook and every f**king magazine I picked up was telling me I should be interested in wine bars, the Kardashians, wearing yoga pants just because and hitting the Starbucks drive-thru before I wasted my time trolling the pages of Facebook – GAG.

What it came down to, again, was an issue of self confidence, I needed the confidence to actually be okay with claiming my activities and interests. Going against the norm, had always been my forte so why should I be surprised that my norm was not so norm??? So I started making it the norm, seeking out those who shared my interests or who didn’t care if I loved coffee or wine, as long as I was not a serial killer.

#5.  I feel sort of funny about this one so I’ve decided to designate this intro task to a friend or my husband. Next time I’m out I’ll have my designated person introduce me in this way, I am a mom but NOT just a mom.

#6. One thing I did notice while in my time machine as I visited my college self was that I acted how I felt and felt how I acted. I would probably be described as free-spirit or bad-ass bitch as a 21 yea-old. Now, at this phase of my life,  doing so isn’t celebrated so much, I’m sure if I told a mom that i didn’t like her and I didn’t like her kid’s attitude, I wouldn’t be so cool. I’m pretty sure if I wore what I wanted no matter the venue or the event I may be kicked out. I’m positive the CPS may look into the upbringing of my children if I felt like “calling off” for the day, sleeping in, laying on the couch while I binge watched Project Runway or Law & Order ignoring all other breathing beings.

But I could Looking further into the details of #6 … ACT HOW YOU WANT TO FEEL. I wanted to feel fun, I wanted to feel genuine, I wanted to feel energetic I wanted to feel at peace. I started planning fun events with my loved ones and friends. I focused on reaching out whether in small or big ways to those that meant the most to me to be my most genuine self.  I started partaking in activities that gave me energy but also provided peace. I started taking care of ME (mind, body and spirit) which in turn made me feel how I wanted to.  The reflection is still in process, as long as I remind myself that rather than wishing I felt one way, why not act how I wanted to feel?

Now it’s your turn, who are you? Apply the 6 steps or even just one to find out. 

Who Arrrreee Y-O-U?? 6 Steps to Finding Out.

Who are you

You ask a girl in college who she is and she’ll be able to tell you. She’ll also be able to tell you who she’ll be in the future. Odds are if you find that same girl ten plus years later, she won’t be able to tell you who the hell she is or what the future holds for her. Take me for example. Jumping in my time machine and watching my 21 year-old self, I knew everything and had the confidence times ten of my present day self. I had a plan. I believed there were no life obstacles. I literally had the world serving me what I wanted on a silver platter for the taking.

Now, I’m not so sure . I’m well aware of who I used to be and pretty sure of who I want to grow up to be, but I’ll be the first to admit that I have no idea who I am supposed to be this exact moment.  I’m not alone in my feelings, it turns out the majority of women, especially moms, are in the same exact boat.

It’s all too confusing. Who arrrreee you??  As a mom I’m supposed to act one way. As a woman in her thirties I’m supposed to be interested in certain things. As a wife and stay at home mom I’m supposed to feel a certain way. But what happens when NONE of these guidelines within the handbook of woman, mom and wife doesn’t match the way I feel, act or take an interest in … am I an outcast? Am I “wrong” or possibly not fulfilling my full potential?

#1.  ASK. Ask yourself, ask your husband, ask your fiends, ask your relatives, ask your children. What stands out to them? What is one word that they would use to describe you?

#2.  TAKE A TIME MACHINE.  When did you feel at your best? Why? What was it that gave you that reassurance and confidence? To balance your knowledge, when did you feel your worst? What or who makes you feel less?

#3.  F-U-N. While in your time machine be sure to visit your carefree FUN self. What were you doing? Where were you? What were your hobbies that made you feel alive where clocks didn’t matter and consumed you?

#4.  TEST THE WATERS. Is it the same? Do you still enjoy the activities you found on your time travel? Or have your tastes changed? (I used to like shots of Tequila topped off with Tabasco, I’m pretty sure I don’t like those anymore.)

#5.  INTRODUCE YOURSELF. Studies have found that the majority of the population identify themselves with their title within employment. However when I say I’m a stay at home mom, there are many that are not parents that don’t understand what that career even is so … What do you do?  I learned from a fellow mom to follow up the SAHM thing with your hobbies or interests. For example I would say, “I write a blog and study yoga.” (Or A.K.A I share my feelings through written word for FREE and do weird movements while breathing rhythmically). You are a mom but NOT just a mom >> Spark that conversation.

#6. ACT HOW YOU WANT TO FEEL and ACT HOW YOU FEEL. Pretty simple steps >>> right?

How do these 6 steps work? Well, I am your guinea pig. I tested these 6 on myself and will post the suburban scientific findings in the next post of The Funny In Mommy!


Hot Mess.


I wonder if when people see me they think “Uh-oh here comes that Hot Mess.” Seriously. I totally have issues getting out the door and even more so when I am out the door. I envy those women that are so incredibly put together. I think “Self –  what the fuck are you doing that you cannot get it together?”  I wonder if there is some “mighty momma” meeting I missed out on or a guidebook that they never handed out when I left the hospital with my first born?

I once had a mom tell me her 3 year old was reading at a 5 year old level while at the same exact moment one of my three year-olds licked left over peanut butter off the table >> I avoided eye contact with her after she made eye contact with him.

Hot Mess.

The other day my three year old daughter and I had a come to Jesus in the bathroom stall of the library during an argument about why she her tummy hurt and that she couldn’t hold her poop in that I’m pretty sure the entire lower level overheard and witnessed.

Hot Mess.

The Monday, during my yoga class God conveniently placed me next to a twenty something blonde in matching athletic garb from head to toe as I wore a “Bieber Fever ” tee with my unwashed hair slicked to my head from leftover dry shampoo and the bottoms of my feet slightly gray from the lack of shoes I wore outside that morning as I yelled at my kids to stop throwing tennis balls against the side of the house.

Hot Mess.

Our eldest dog, though he is neutered, humps every visitor we have, from our babysitter to our Pastor to our cleaning people. A 7 lb little humping white fur ball, yep, he belongs to us. Our other dog can smell the carcass of a dead animal from 3 miles away and brings it back across the neighborhood to our front yard EACH and EVERY time with a limb of some sort hanging out of his mouth as cars drive by staring in wonder.

Hot Mess.

During the warm weather last week my savage children played outside as I made dinner. As I peeked through the window to check on them, my kids had decided to create a small mudd pool next to our driveway and now had our 80 year-old neighbor in a conversation about the pool as they smeared dark brown sludge across their faces while asking her if she would like some as they held up sticks with the goop hanging in gobs off the ends.

Hot Mess.

My daughter wears only pink and refuses to wear her hair up no matter the bed head catastrophe it is. My youngest son wears only the same two outfits day after day. My eldest thinks most adults are below his intelligence and speaks to them as if he were Einstein.

Hot Mess.

Today at preschool drop-off most moms looked as if they rolled out of a j. crew ad while I looked like I rolled out of a TMZ ad while my children portrayed all traits that Dr.Oz warns against.

Hot Mess. And this is only a fraction of a recap of this week … of the PG rated stuff.

I try to analyze at what point did I make the switch from sane to lunatic mom/wife. I often find myself rambling to other customers in line about TMI subjects or running through a parking lot after my children as I scream “PUT YOUR HAND ON THE VAN! YOU’RE GOING TO GET HIT BY A CAR!!” or looking around the gym at all the cute yoga pants and sporty tanks while catching my own reflection in the mirror of possibly a homeless person that they let into the gym for a free membership day. Sane or lunatic? Hot mess or lucky lady?

I woke up and there was a rainbow sticker on the toilet seat this morning. Oh the irony. I’m not sure what God wanted me to know as I put my ass on a rainbow. Was it a metaphor to let me know that my ass was on a rainbow with the life I am leading? Perhaps. When I bare it all, removing all the razzle dazzle, To Do lists and extra stuff (just like the naked cheeks of a butt) I am very lucky (hence the rainbow) with all that I have.

All-Star Celebrity Status.

Brax1 brax2 brax3 brax4

6 years on the job.

Tomorrow marks my 6th anniversary as a mother. Also known as the 6th birthday of my eldest, but don’t tell him that as he assumes that April 27th is all about him (which basically it is). But six years ago I left the corporate world. I left behind the office. I left behind the deadlines. I left behind a chapter in me life while I entered a whole new chapter that I would be living the rest of my life. I became a mother, and as a mother it’s a job that is listed on your resume as PRESENT for the rest of eternity.

I am Braxton’s mom. I am cool but uncool all at one time. I am warm and demanding. I suck at life one minute, but the next I am like a celebrity in his eyes. I sacrificed hours of sleep and my boobs in order to breastfeed. I carried him nine days late and have been quick to carry him when he needs me now. I spent hours watching him breathe to make sure he was okay. I wiped his butt and was even peed on.  I taught him to walk, to hold a crayon, the alphabet, how to write his name, to count and right from wrong. I was there during questions of God and death. I was there during questions of monsters and falling in love. I was there during tantrums, fits, hugs and kisses. I was there during stitches, puking and coughs. I’ve been present at EVERY doctor visit whether well or sick. I’ve never missed a school performance or an at home milestone. I’m teaching him to tie his shoes now. We are solving math problems and completing book reports. We are engaging in discussion on Charlotte’s Web. I’m introducing him to foods that are grown-up like lobster and steak. I’ve even brainwashed him into being my television partner for Cake Wars and Food Network Baking Championship.

My boss of six years breaks my heart and fills it with joy each every day. My boss pays me in kisses and in slamming doors on my face. He measures my performance on how well I remember his favorite foods, colors, sports, Pokemon characters and the names of his friends. My raise is based on my ability to change my voice while impersonating characters while I read a book or if I let him have the cereal he really wants. He has been my best friend and enemy within the same hour. I am the love of his life but one day he will leave me for another woman. My boss is one of my greatest accomplishments. My job is my greatest fear, love, pain, enjoyment and a million other adjectives and feelings.

I’m a motherf**king all-star when it comes to this job. As I look at this little six-year old miniature man today I know that I am killing it in this industry of MOTHERHOOD. When I take in all that he is, all that he has become and all that I know he has in his future, I’m rolling in billions.

I’m a motherf**king all-star when it comes to this job. What’s even better is that my boss will be the first to tell you that I am 🙂


Spring BREAK


The possibility of becoming wrapped up in the To Do Lists of life is a topic I often write about. This article happens to revisit that subject again. Surprise, surprise.  But just like everyone else I need a reminder.  Habits are hard to break. And that damn To Do List is a drug that I can’t seem to fully detox from.

The month of March did not disappoint when it came to the phrase “in like a lion, out like a lamb”. Holy shit. The first 19 days of March were a chaotic frenzy of scheduled classes and events. Though I had seen my family it was as if I hadn’t seen them. Though I was slipping in between the sheets each night it was as if I hadn’t slept. I went into each week hating Monday and hating Friday along with everything in between. It wasn’t until a divine intervention in the form of a wet nasty cough came into play on a Saturday morning. Cue bronchitis diagnosis on all three children not to mention a cold for mommy and daddy as well.

Swim lessons were cancelled. Karate belts were left unworn. Yoga classes were missed. Preschool and Kindergarten were issued absent calls. Tutus weren’t even attempted. The week prior to spring break was one long series of endless days of sick kids and exhausted parents. I sat with my little ones sprawled across my lap. We read mounds of books filled with fiction and talking animals. Plenty of odd characters and colors filled the television screen. The time spent indoors during recuperation, though snot filled and echoed with coughs, was a time of bonding, a time for retreat and not to mention gave me time to clean every inch of the house. The only problem was that we were leaving for Texas at the end of the week to start spring break at Nana and Papa’s house. It was clear we needed the helping hand of a doctor. Two days before we were scheduled to board a plane we wiggled our way into the pediatrician’s office on a sick visit. All three kids were checked head to toe, all three leaving with the same diagnosis. Bronchitis. All three with prescriptions to ease their breathing and help their little frames to stop coughing.

Fast forward to the plane ride. To make traveling with three year-old twins and a five year-old bossy brother even better, my ear tube popped causing a domino affect of pain and sinus problems leading to an infection and visit to the Urgent Care – woo-hoo!  Long story short, I literally broke on spring break.

Breaking forced me to fully embrace the break part of spring break. It helped to be surrounded by family day and night. I went to bed early and slept in late. I sat by the pool and ate apple pie (that GASP wasn’t Paleo – it was homemade by the gals behind the grocery store bakery counter). I didn’t cook dinner once and laid in bed watching Law and Order more than once. I forgot about makeup and wore a hat rather than brushing my hair. Rest. A true break from reality. I welcomed it and so did my kids. They skipped naps, stayed up late, swam all day and ate fists full of candy and squished fries into their little cheeks. They followed on the heels of their older cousins and ignored mommy altogether.

As we littered around the living room after filling our bellies with Easter goodies. We rambled on about this and that, leading to the talk about taking a walk. My brother in-law’s dad responded “I don’t walk on Sundays, it’s a day of rest.”  So simple yet so brilliant. A day of rest. When was the last time that i had a day of rest? When was the last time that I felt like it was okay to rest. March had proved that I could do it ALL, but it also proved that I shouldn’t do it. It also made it clear that days of rest were need for those small and not so small. So why is it that we feel like we MUST do it all? That we should wear all hats and not just one. That being well-rounded with a full schedule is far better than being down to earth and grounded with a lack of schedule.

With the taste of rest that spring break provided, I welcome summer. Not only for its sunny bright days but also its lack of schedules. Lack of structure and more freedom to promote creativity and imagination.  Long days filled with independence, dirty hands and tanned skin.   Far from being useless, resting play is the food that feeds the soul that drives healthy development for the young and the old(er). I invite the productive-lazy days of June, July and August. Months of exploration of not only nature but also the interests of my three wee ones, my own and my husband.

With less than 2 months before the last school bell rings to mark the start of summer, my family is gearing up for those warm days by not only planning but also breaking into restful play days. The bikes are out, sidewalk chalk litters the yard and our hands have already planted the first greens of our makeshift garden. We’ve ditched going home right after school for the play ground or the backyard.  Our days are filled with more freedom and play rather than lessons, structure, treadmills and rules.  I may not be throwing my bikini top off a stage or getting drunk at noon on a beach but I’ll be throwing caution to the wind and getting drunk on the freedom that summer has to offer. You get drunk too …


Recognition by a perfectionist …

Brooke Halperin Low Res30

I’ve been thinking about becoming famous.  I’m thinking that it may be a good idea to do something, invent something or create something that would bring me to celebrity status. As a mom who doesn’t shower on a regular basis or hasn’t stayed up past midnight in years (without a child puking as the main event) it’s hard to not want to be a celebrity, I think about the money, the parties, the vacations, the spa days, the clothing, the personal trainers … it’s hard to not get swept up and in the glitz and glamour of it all.

As of lately, I find myself drawn to this idea even more.  In fact, I’ve had vivid dreams of reaching my day-dream status.  Instead of reading something that won a Pulitzer Prize I dive into the latest blogs and articles covering the gorgeous and famous. Did I mention that Oscar night is like my very own version of Christmas morning? So what gives? Why the sudden emphasis and desire of public attention, this focus on bling?

Like the rest of the world, I looked for answers to my questions in the all-knowing Google. According to the articles within it’s not a desire to be in the public eye or a love for money, it’s actually the longing for recognition.

Ah-ha! Now this makes sense! Recognition for what moms do on a daily basis is far and in between. I find myself reminding my kids to say please and thank you at least a million times per day. My dogs could care less if they give me some love to show they realize they would starve and barely survive without me.  I’m not alone in my feelings. According to my placement in Generation Y, it turns out more than 50% of those born between the 80’s and 2000 long for a status of rich or famous.

So which is it? My longing for recognition for all I do or is it my Gen-Y birthday??? Google has no feedback and Bing has no idea. Unfortunately, it turns out the only person that can answer this question is ME. Cue pity violin for ME.

Looking within, it may be that I cannot give my own self recognition. It’s hard to recognize the things I do and accomplish on a daily basis without focusing on what I feel I could have done or accomplished. It’s hard for me to see what I have right in front me when it’s so easy to see what I want in the glossy pages of a magazine. I blame my lack of self-confidence too. It’s easy to be conned into the words and images depicted across the pages of my magazines, within the clicks of my inbox and the screen of my television. If only I did that, looked like that or had that I would be perfect. Damn you perfectionist, damn you.

Recognition by a perfectionist …

For me the solutions to life’s questions or what may be ailing my soul can be found in words. For me the words spoken by another or those I read in a book are similar to the comfort found in the warm arms of a hug from my mom. Words in all forms seem to bring a sense of calm over my crazy. So when I came across the following words without even really searching for them, my celebrity fantasies came to mind …

If we have food and covering, with these we shall be content. But those who want to get rich, fall into temptation and a snare and many foolish and harmful desires which plunge men into ruin and destruction.  (Mind you this is a biblical verse which I usually tend to stay away from in my own writing but when I came across Timothy 6:9 in not the bible but a Google search, biblical or not it spoke to me.)  To me the word “rich” is equal to famous so YES this makes sense, YES this was the end result of these so-called desires I’ve been having. Timothy knew what he was talking about, even though he may not have had a stay at home mom in the age of Facebook in mind when he uttered these words. My materialistic desires and fancy celebrity daydreams had become a snare, a trap set for my own good fortunes.  Rather than seeing all that is awesome in my own life, those desires fueled by my own lack of recognition for what I do and the woman who I am were ruining and destroying all the good. Because when I pull back the curtain of “the grass is greener” and look through the eyes of gratitude all I have around me is all that I truly need.  All that is around me is perfect in it’s own imperfect way. 

Recognition by a perfectionist …

Taking a cue from Timothy, I focus hard on the present and on my own “green grass”. What do I find? I relish in the love of my devoted husband and treasure the sticky hearts and hands of my small children. I am famous in my own little celebrity world where this blog is my writing outlet and grabs the attention of more and more readers with each article posted. The MOPS group I created that has opened the door to a whole new world to so many mothers. The volunteer work I do. The tiny human beings I raise. The thought and care I put into my actions as a daughter and a friend.  The mundane but necessary work I put in as a homemaker, mother and wife does all matter. I may not be recognized for it all on the front cover of US Weekly, but until I come to recognize it on my own, it wouldn’t matter if I was on the front cover of every magazine in the checkout line of Target.

Recognition by a perfectionist …


  1. Reflect on your What I Did Today List, rather than what is not crossed off on your To-Do List.
  2. Think about who you cared for today … whether it be an ailing parents, a newborn, your high school age daughter, your new husband or your loyal dog. To that one being you mean the world!
  3. Did you flex your talent muscle today? If you’re good with numbers or words, did you jot some down? A great baker or fabulous cook, were you in the kitchen today? Amazing singer or instrument player, did you hum a tune or strike a note? The list goes on …
  4. Think of your body in regards to senses not just looks. Engage in smelling, seeing, touching, tasting and hearing while being grateful for all those abilities to experience this brilliant life. Go a step further and thank the body that holds all those pieces of sensory together.





Potty Mouths and Butt Tag.


I’m worried that I may have some sort of amnesia. It seems that I have forgotten that at some point I taught my three small children the words poop, pee, butt, eww and pee-pee and that while I taught them I laughed hysterically at the use of the words.

Apparently at some point I must have squatted over a basket while also pretending it to be a potty. Along with these incidents I had at one time pulled down my pants baring my ass cheeks while I cupped them in both hands wiggling my buttocks back and forth while humming. I mean I MUST HAVE because my children are constantly engaging in this behavior and where else could they have learned it???

I’m confused as to when my three soft and adorable babies became tiny adults using phrases like “Eww, look at your butt” and turning every ordinary object into a pretend potty.

The more I thought about it the more I realized I do not have amnesia. Rather, I blame the evilness that is Kindergarten. In analyzing where the birth of such language and fascination of bowel movements started I recall an incident in September when my son’s teacher pulled me aside after school to inform me that my sweet first born boy had been engaging in potty talk with some of his friends during class. HOW COULD THIS BE??? My angel? My little boy who I read to nightly and listened to classical music while he incubated in my belly?!!?? Yes, true story, my son had become a potty mouth.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is where it all started. Like a plague the use of such words and play spread like wildfire from my eldest to my youngest. I could physically see with my own two eyes the bright light and gleaming glee that came from the eye sockets of my younger son as he heard the word butt used by his older brother. It was as if a light-bulb had been switched on in some dormant part of his brain producing a euphoria that he could not and would not ignore. When my sweet little girl was ordained into this butt and potty mouth fraternity, she cooperated and followed like a first class potty word slinging soldier. Soon all three were taking the gift of potty words and running with it. What followed was a progression from shaking butts, to making butts talk to dropping their pants at passing cars. The words had taken on actions and a mind of their own.

It gets worse. Now we have hit a whole new level of low. A low where their mother, yes me, stooped as low as her children in attempt to stop the butt shaking, ass tagging, potty mouth insanity. Let me paint a picture of this new low for you:

I’m in the bathroom trying to look presentable when I hear the potty words begin as my three lovely offspring play with different action figures in a KidsKraft Firehouse. In my first attempt to stop the spread of the words any further I yell from the bathroom to knock it off. About one eye shadow swipe and a brush of the hair later and I hear, “Hurry! Throw the toilet out the window! Oh no he’s pooping everywhere!” “Put the fire out with the pee!” Now I leave the bathroom and enter into the living room to make it clear i’m not messing around. Now I’m standing in front of them telling them that they know better and aren’t to use those words and that I can hear them. They all promise to stop. I head to the bedroom to throw some clothes on.

Now as I pull my shirt over my head I can hear the muffled words, “Throw the garbage can out the window! Look at his naked butt, he’s shaking his butt out the window and has no where to pee!” Now with only a shirt and underwear on I storm down the hallway for my third attempt to quiet their potty mouths. As I turn the corner they are already looking in my direction and before I can say my peace my youngest son points at me and loudly exclaims “Eww! Mommy’s underwear! Look at her butt!” Now I had become the butt of their butt jokes. That’s when the low came into play as I exclaimed back, “If you guys like poop and pee so much that is what I’m serving for breakfast, lunch and dinner from now on. If that’s the language you want to use and be potty mouths then that is what I will feed your potty mouths!” As their eyes grew wide and their potty mouths dropped open at the possibility of such a reality I knew I had struck a cord. Apologies were fast and needless to say I finished dressing in peace only hearing that the firemen were saving babies and climbing ladders like normal non-urinating rescue workers would be doing.

Unfortunately, my scare didn’t take as permanently as I would have hoped.  The following day I watched my youngest son run naked through our kitchen while his older brother ran after him trying to swat his naked tush while yelling “BUTT TAG!” It appears that in using their language I had only stooped to their level rather than raising them from it.

Moving forward, I will be claiming my original claim of amnesia. Don’t be surprised if you see me pant-less at Target, but at least you’ll know why.