Happy Birthday B

Two years ago today, Beckett was born, and he changed us all.


He made Kate a big sister.


He made us a family of four.


He made us laugh.


He created new love for us all.


And he continues to touch our hearts in new ways, each and every day.


You make our family complete. My favorite sound is your laugh, the deep belly one that you reserve for when Kate delights you. Only her. Your love for your sister, and her love for you is one of the greatest gifts I have ever known.

You bless us. You have taught me a new patience. You have evened out my rough edges with your big hugs, your kisses and your unwavering love. I am learning big lessons from you daily little man. And while I will make it my life’s work to raise you to be a good, and thoughtful, and loving man, please know that you have already impacted the world around you.

I love you. I will pray for you daily for the rest of my life. May God bless you this year, the year after that and for a lifetime. Remember to look to Him and you will be on a path to greatness.

Happy birthday my son. My little B.

Mommy loves you.


Bait and Switch

Happy Throwback Thursday friends! This is the day of the week that I am allowed to be lazy and post an old post from back in the EdelSpot files instead of a new one. But it’s okay! Because it’s Throwback Thursday! Todays #tbt comes to us from July 24, 2009. And for all my new friends, LOOK! Proof I’ve been this neurotic and hapless for much longer than I care to admit. Enjoy!


Last night, we tried giving Kate formula for the first time in her life. It reminded me of another experience I had several years ago with my dog Jackson.

When Ben and I were still just a hot young couple in love (not the current semi-hot late 20s couple in love with a mortgage and a baby) we often took walks in our neighborhood with my dog Jackson. He always knew that likely the walk would end in his favorite park, where we would throw the tennis ball for him until our arms got tired. Because, he never EVER tired of chasing the tennis ball.
So one Saturday morning, after my annual pumpkin carving party (I’ve mentioned how I totally geek out for Halloween haven’t I? If not, you now know my dirty little secret) Ben and I took Jack to the park. Being the responsible early 20s version of my current self, I a) was hungover and b)couldn’t find a tennis ball, so instead of actually MAKING AN EFFORT and going to buy one, Ben and I grabbed a small mini-pumpkin about the size and heft of a ball. Genius right?As soon as we got to the park, Ben let that pumpkin fly. Jack caught up with it just as it was hitting the ground and when he pounced and closed his mouth around the foreign pumpkin instead of the familiar tennis ball, he reacted like he had been soaked with a hose and then attached to a car battery. In one fluid OH SHIT moment, all four paws left the ground as he leaped straight into the air like he had pogo sticks for legs. The look on his face was priceless. I laughed my ass off.

It was a classic case of bait and switch. And it just shocked the hell out of Jack.

Last night, Kate experienced our bait and switch tactics, and she was none to pleased. Finally at rest with the idea of supplementing with formula, we decided to try her first bottle before she went to bed. Ben bathed her, read her a book, got her all snuggly in her footy pajamas and settled down in the rocker where I normally nurse her. When I handed Ben the bottle she looked a little nonplussed that she wasn’t getting the boob, but since she is a greedy little thing she lunged for the nipple and began boisterously sucking away.

You could see in her face the exact moment she got a mouthful of formula. If she had the required muscle control she would have leaped straight of Ben’s lap, grabbed the bottle and possibly bitch slapped him for putting that CRAP in her MOUTH.

I guess you could say it didn’t go well.

She jerked with shock when she first tasted the formula instead of the milk she expected. Her eyes widened, her mouth opened, she spit out everything she could and began crying. I had to leave the room. This continued for maybe three minutes while I sat on the sofa in the living room in the fetal position and rocked myself. When I couldn’t stand it any more, I went into the nursery, scooped Kate of a miserable Ben’s lap and popped her on the boob. She began to eat furiously, making grunting, snuffling noises and if she could have talked I swear it would have sounded something like, “Oh, hm, yeah, oh yeah, um, this is good, snarf, this is really good, this is what I wanted, what is that other crap, keep that other crap away from me, bullshit I say, oh, God, yum, yes, this is the ticket, hmmmmmmmm, miiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiilk.”

So I’m a formula failure. In my defense, Kate had a rough day with her shots and wasn’t feeling great, so I decided that it wasn’t the time to insist on formula. She needed both food AND comfort and I knew I could give them to her. I plan on trying again today though. Jackson ended up playing a nice long game of catch with the pumpkin once he recovered from the shock of it all, and I have high hopes for Kate too.




Driven to distraction

I have three identical scars on my arms. Two on my left arm and one on my right. Just three straight lines, all on my forearms. It kind of looks like a wrestled a tiger. Or maybe I saved several children from a burning bus by punching out a window. Yeah, either of those sound good. You know what DOESN’T sound interesting or heroic? That I burned myself, three separate times, on the racks in my oven. Nope. That is not at all what happened. Because that would be DUMB.

Okay. So yeah. That IS what happened. And I can’t even say it was when I was a young whippersnapper, just transitioning off my Easy Bake Oven. All three times have been in the last year. So I’m giving my oven the evil eye the other day, thinking “What the hell is our problem Mr. Oven?” and then Kate comes crashing into the kitchen screaming about something or another and Beckett trips in after her ranting in his half real words/half toddler gibberish and they start wrestling over some toy like oversized obnoxious puppies and I’m all, “Ohhhhh. Yeah. Sure, thats it.”

I’m distracted.

Like, ALL the time.

It is fairly common for Ben to ask me what is up with our friends when I come home from a play date. It is also fairly common for me to stare blankly at him for about 30 seconds and then report something like, “I have no idea, but Beckett pooped whole blueberries and Kate got in a fight with a little girl with pigtails. Oh, and the kids both hate the color green now.”

Because I haven’t had a full, uninterrupted adult conversation since 2009. I’ve also decided it’s a miracle I am alive at this very moment despite all the distractions in that tiny metal hell hole on wheels we call a car. Demands for dropped toys, drinks of water, fights, screaming, singing, repeating a single word over, and over (and OVER), all coming at you in rapid fire. So yes, I may have swerved into your lane sir, but I was just reaching for the Buzz Lightyear in the floorboards of the car because OH MY GOD HE WONT SHUT UP UNTIL BUZZ IS IN HIS SWEATY TODDLER HANDS I’M GOING TO LOSE MY MIND GAAAHHHHH.

… uh, where was I going with this?

Oh, yeah. So if you see me out and about and I ignore you, or if I forget a birthday or text you my grocery list, please give me a pass. At least for another sixteen years or so.

I’m distracted.

Just a little leak

I’ve suffered a lot of indignities since becoming a mother. It’s all part of the deal. I’ve spent a few days sitting on an icepack while my husband asks me if my “junk” is feeling okay. I’ve had toddlers pull on the neck of my shirt and expose my bra… in church. I’ve had my skirt pulled up so my underwear could make an appearance… in a gas station. I’ve had to start wearing THREE sports bras to the gym because my previously perky breasts are now roughly the size and shape of a sack of flour poured into two knee socks.

Sure. Not ideal, but I got two awesome kids out of it, so I just kind of go with the flow. Besides, I’m never going to see those truckers again, and I WAS wearing my good underwear (the ones without holes) so whatever. You just approach life as a mom with a sense of humor and an ability to laugh at yourself. Like, a lot.

Which was always my philosophy. Until I peed myself at the gym today.

Yeah, you read that right. Halfway through kickboxing I realize that I have peed myself. Just a little, but still. I guarantee you THAT would never have happened in my 20s. Honestly, as soon as it happened I immediately thought, “FREAKING KATE AND BECKETT.” Like, it’s their fault (lets be honest, it is) and my second thought was, “Gotta go, gotta go, gotta go…” as I skipped out on the second Turbo to race to the bathroom. Which ticked me off even more, because now I just assume everyone in the class thought I couldn’t hack it through the hard parts. And I’m all “I JUST WET MYSELF EVERYONE. NO WORRIES THOUGH BECAUSE I REALLY CAN MAKE IT THROUGH THIS CLASS.”


The upside is that I learned some valuable lessons from this experience. First off, I need to change my circuit to include some new exercises. Squats, lunges, push-ups, kegels. Kegels, kegels, kegels. Repeat.

Second, yes, my babies are worth every moment of embarrassment and pain, but there are some things that I plan to hold against them. Like, for life. Losing control of my bladder just a teeny, tiny bit? At the top of that list. I’m just imaging the first time teenage Kate screams at me, “I HATE YOU!” and I’m going to be all, “YEAH?? Well you made me PEE MYSELF, so NOW we are square.”

Third, no matter how low you have sunk, there is ALWAYS the opportunity for it to get worse. So don’t complain when you eat a bite of pre-chewed brownie or have to clean sunscreen finger paint off the side of your car. Just think.

You could have peed yourself.

Welcome to the EdelSpot 2.0!

Did you know I have a blog. Uh-huh. A real live blog, with words and pictures and other bloggy stuff. Sadly, that blog was a little… neglected… when B was born. The kind of neglect that would probably get you arrested if the blog was a kid, or a dog. Luckily, last time I checked I am NOT going to get arrested for being a lazy writer. Although, actually, being arrested for 24 hours or so doesn’t sound half bad. Like a stay-cation. I mean, yes, the jumpsuits and tuna sandwiches aren’t exactly the Four Seasons, but I’d get to eat sitting down. I wouldn’t have four pair of tiny, sticky hands pawing at me constantly. I’d get to spend all day watching TV, and chances are it wouldn’t be animated. And since I’m used to no privacy when going to the bathroom already, that is kind of a wash.

And now you are wondering how I know what jail is like, and I’m all, “Uh, hmmm. Blog post for another time friend.”

But I digress.

So I have a blog. Its called The EdelSpot. I started writing it when I was pregnant with Kate and pretty much stopped writing when Beckett came along and NEEDED stuff from me, like, ALL THE TIME (infants, yeesh). So when I decided it was time to get back in the saddle I realized that my old blog, was, well, old. So welcome to EdelSpot 2.0. If you’ve followed my blog in the past you will notice I’m at wordpress now, so you’ll want to change your bookmark (ha. see how I actually think I still have readers who have my blog bookmarked?) Also, I’ll be sticking to the whole #TBT phenomenon, and will be running old EdelSpot posts on Thursdays to catch up friends who are new here.

So anyways, hope you guys enjoy our journey. And here is to hoping I can actually find the time to blog now that I’ve committed to it again. Cheers!