Buckle up, friends. I have held this in for six long months, debating if I was ever going to share it with anyone. I feel like it is my duty as a woman to share this cautionary tale with you, so here goes nothing.

It was a cold dreary day in December. With Christmas craziness and the obligatory 97 different “holiday” parties to attend, “me time” was falling through the cracks. But one day, a Christmas miracle straight from tiny baby Jesus happened. I found myself with an unexpected two hours where I had to be no where by any certain time. Where did I go, you wonder? Luxury Nail, duh. These cuticles needed some attention and I was too tired to do it myself. This is where the real Nightmare Before Christmas began...

I pulled up and saw they had a permanent sign on the window that said “facial”. I said: “Self... don’t be so judge mental. The sign wouldn’t be permanent if it wasn’t something they did all the time. You could be missing out on the greatest secret since Brazilian waxing” (another blog for another time). We can tell by the title of this blog that I was wrong, but I was just trying to be more open minded. So I asked Tammy when I walked in if I could get a “mani/pedi/and uh... (pointing at the sign) do you do facials?” Boy do I wish I had a screenshot of Tammy’s face when I said that. Should have been a dead giveaway.

After realizing I was making a huge mistake, I should have just said nevermind and that I didn’t have time for all three services. But no. I’m what they call a yes lady, a people pleaser, a real pushover I tell ya. So I was in too deep and going through with whatever the “esthetician” had in store for me. I mean, my pores were the size of Texas so what was there to lose?! 🤦‍♀️

I went back into the room. There was a furry zebra blanket on the massage table and a boom box cut into the corner of the ceiling. The scariest thing in the room wasn’t the children’s socks and toys on the floor, or the Caboodle sitting next to the sink. It was the steamer on the counter that looked like something I had definitely seen at the Wal-Marts on clearance before. I asked Kim (no I am not being racist, that was her name) if it was perhaps a clothes steamer and not a face steamer? She assured me it was for face. Well shit! Here we go! Yes lady can’t back out now!

I laid down after taking my shirt off (standard for a facial - but there was no way in hell I was losing my bra in that joint) and the torture commenced. It started with a heavy cream with a very familiar smell... hmmmm.... I know it! Oil of Olay. But the knock off kind. Target brand I presume. The “spa service” included lots of slapping and pinching and scalding me with a clothes steamer, with the occasional “you has no wrinkles because I do this to your eyes”. Um, bish I has no wrinkles because I get it from my mama, thanks very much. Don’t take credit for good genes, Kim.

Then it happened. She told me to roll over. I said to my self: “Self... don’t do that.” And immediately followed that little lady’s orders and went face down. She then unhooked my bra and gave me the worst back massage of my life (and I’ve lived with three toddlers so I am a fair judge of shitty massages. I love their guts though. I digress.)

I was lucky I still had on pants, because what happened next, my friends, was nothing short of sexual assault. That tiny Asian woman took her tiny Asian hands and smacked them on the cheeks of my more than tiny ass! I wish I had a screenshot of my face at that magical moment! Then she started shaking it violently back and forth. Kind of like when the pedicure chair goes haywire and makes it look like you are having a seizure when you are just trying to read what the Housewives are bitching about on Twitter. What makes nail salon owners think we like to be shaken like a salt shaker while trying to relax?! Anyways, back to the fiasco at hand. After some chop chop chops down the back of my legs she said to roll back over, put some foot cream on my face and in my hair and sent me on my way. I felt bamboozled. And my dumbass paid only $10 less than what I would have at any real spa for that shit!!

I stole a writing pen to pen to put my greasy, coconut paradise-smelling hair up, put my shirt on, snooped in her Caboodle (I was right! Target of Olay!) and walked out of the room. I have never counted to 60, 60 times before that experience. Longest hour of my life. So what did i do next? Sat down with Tammy and got a manicure because I felt like it shouldn’t be her fault that Kim slept her way through cosmetology school.

Luxury Nail got me good that day, but I can guarantee you they will never have me again. Instead of beating myself up for being a dumbass and not being bold enough to stand up for myself, I am considering this event research and development. You don’t know what you don’t know and now I am able to share my story with all of you. I hope you got a laugh and a lesson out of this one!

#theanxietymom #nailsalon #facial #notthesame #dontrollover

Every parent with multiple children has one, I’m convinced, that gives them a run for their money and keeps them on their toes. Mine is the baby, thank the Lort, or she would possibly be the only. Hold the judgement, please. I didn’t say that I don’t love her or that I would change one thing about her... I just mean she is a little more spirited than the older children. Don’t call DFCS on me. She gets food, baths, and honest to goodness every damn thing she ever asks for. That face. I can’t. (Yes I said it and I say it all the time! Move on.) Here are a few examples of how she likes to shake shit up around the Jones casa...

I went to Bunco the other evening. Sidebar:: Yes ladies, we are that age and if you aren’t part of a Bunco group then you are missing the party train. Think I’m joking? I’m not. Our husbands think we are going to throw dice and gossip, and we are really eating junk food, shooting fireball, talking shit, and trying to remember what number we are trying to throw and if we are trying to win or lose for the evening (even losers win at Bunco). I digress... back to mini Britney. I come home from Bunco a few hours later to find my youngest sticking feminine pads to the walls in the powder room.... like a ton of them! She was so proud. “Look Mommy! I did some art!” All the while, dad is upstairs yelling at 12 year olds on the headset playing call of duty. The older kids were entertained. Hell, I’dve let her do it too if I didn’t know how much that paint cost! My big kids have learned that with Bird (aka “her”) we have to pick our battles. And I was too busy acting like a college kid with Helen and Carol to be there to regulate.

She is definitely the most adventurous one of the brood. We were leaving for school the other day, after it took me an hour of negotiations with the terrorist to get her to wake up and get her shit together, and I opened the garage door per the usual. Something caught my eye in the garage and I paused to look... next thing I know, mini Mary Poppins is holding onto the ledge of the bottom of the garage door riding it all the way to the top. Not scared at all! Her response (in her normal British accent... we will get to that): “What mummy, I was just going up up up?!” Nothing like a heart attack and an anxiety day dream of your kid cutting off her arm in a garage door to make you confident in pulling out of the driveway and tackling your day. From swinging from the kitchen light (which has happened more than once) to using the back of the couch to get down (every time... I’m pretty sure she thinks our house is the American Ninja Warrior course and Evan and I are the commentators) that little nut keeps us on high alert with the doctor on speed dial and a defibrillator handy (for me) at ALL times!

The most recent topic of conversation regarding the Teagan follies is the new accent she has picked up from the “hi-pad”. This child LOVES Peppa Pig 🐷. So much so that she occasionally refers to me as “mummy pig” (you can imagine how that must make this momma feel) and her dad as “daddy pig”. Everything she says these days sounds like a spice girl. She randomly oinks and says things like: “When IIIIII was a little piggy, I used to eat bahbecue!” Oy vey. Not only is she certifiable, now she is a cannibal too?! Whether she is telling me that she needs to take a sleep, or that she would like to ring her grandmother, the accent never fades. I think the best, though, was when SP Fox was practicing his pony tail skillz and she was wiggling all around. He told her to stop it because it was not funny. Her reply (in full character, of course): “It’s a BIT funny, dadday.” I’ve got to get this kid an agent.

When we tell people the ages of our children, usually the next question is “Oh, how are the big kids with the little one?” The real question is how do they tolerate her bossy, crazy, English toddler self?! The answer to that is simple, though. That child has a heart of gold. She lights up a room with every joke and “good idea” she has! She is the perfect finale for our blended little family and life just wouldn’t be the same without her in it. I love her guts and wouldn’t change her crazy ass for anything!

Wish me luck, friends, I have to open the garage door tomorrow to get out again.

#needmorewine #raisingaBrit #theanxietymom

For any of my reader friends who don’t know... my mom has ALS. And it sucks. Bad. To compare this journey to a rollercoaster ride is an understatement at best. At times I wish I could take her place, and then I feel guilty for that because I have children and a husband whom I love very much, and can’t imagine their lives without their crazy mama/wife. Other times I am trying to get my doctorate on WebMD to cure ALS and Lyme’s disease (yes, technically she has both?? What kind of bullshit is that?!?). I wrote a letter to an organization that has done so much research, begging for help today. I don’t understand and I am desperate.

“Sometimes bad things happen to good people” they say. “It’s part of His plan” I hear often. Sayings like that are like daggers in my heart. Obviously I know bad shit happens to good people. I kind of feel like my family wrote the book on that one to be honest. I’m not talking about myself. I’m talking about the most wonderful and respected people in my tribe, my mother and her father (who passed in April).

I worked with my mom before she got sick. She has hundreds of clients that love her dearly, and have subsequently loved me as well. For that I am very grateful. I took over the company and am doing everything I can to find my way through the new normal of my career (don’t panic, A+Tax is still there and doing just fine 😉). If I didn’t work there, though, then work would be an escape for me each day. A welcomed distraction. Instead, it has turned I to a place where I give updates to every caring person who walks through the door or calls on the phone, and walk away quietly wiping tears thinking about all she is going through and praying for a miracle. All while doing the job of two people. My coworkers are amazing in comforting me during those times, and for that I appreciate them that much more!

I get asked how I am doing a lot. The answer is that I am broken. My wings are clipped. I am sad. My heart is crushed as it was in April and as it was 12 years ago this past February, when my only sibling tragically died in a canoe accident. When is enough enough? Why THOSE people? We don’t know. It is what it is... right now. My husband has been my rock and I am so thankful to have him by my side. My Dad has been incredible and I can only hope if I were in that situation I would get the same quality of care. People who I never would have imagined have reached out and that means so much to me! I am tired of lying to people and saying I am good, but I have to.

​This is my outlet to say how I really feel. I will be okay. I know that because it really is part of HIS plan, and bad things really do happen to good people. Sometimes you just want the plan to be different and you wish you weren’t the good people that bad shit is happening to.

#theanxietymom #reallife

This struggle is real life. Kids and tablets are such a bad combo... or not? My threenager is OBSESSED with the “hapad”. Morning, noon, and night I am reassuring her that it is unharmed on top of the refrigerator, and after some good behavior it can be allllll hers for an undetermined amount of time. (Depends on how productive I want to be.) That conversation ultimately leads to a laying on the floor, kicking, screaming fit that usually contains the words: “I never get my hapad!!!” and “You’re not my best friend anymore... daddy is!!!”. 👈 The ultimate mom slam. Especially coming from a daughter. Girl, if it weren’t for me you’d be wearing turtlenecks with ballet tights and combat boots to school. Don’t forget who styles your sassy ass, ya little diva.

There are some times when the tablet is a God-send. Like in a restaurant when the kitchen is “backed up” because there are 14 people in the building right now. Or at a winter concert for your 5th grader when you have to sit through the entire 2 hour performance to see your little angel ding finger sized bells at the end. To the Stepford mom who gave me side eye for giving in to my toddler’s demands and letting her watch strange videos of other people’s children opening shitty McDonalds toys during the performance: Merry Christmas to you from row 25. You would have never been able to hear your darling Chloe sing that traditional Kenyan holiday song like Britney Spears over the fake cries coming from my little terrorist so..... You’re Welcome!!! And if you think for one second I am getting a sitter for this event, you. are. high.

**Sidebar: Our gal was the most beautiful and talented bell dinger I ever did see 🛎. “Happy Holidays from Near and Far” was a magical experience. We went around the world in two hours thanks to the creative genius behind that production!**

On the flip side... that contraption is the damn devil!! My child eats, sleeps, and breathes that “hapad”, and every day around the Jones crib is a negotiation over screen time. What happened to a good ol’ fashioned board game?! It makes me feel like a bad parent when she refuses to eat her dinner unless she gets her 15 minutes of weirdest videos ever made. People make money off of that shit!?!

If anyone knows the trick to make her more interested in real things than the Daddy Finger song, then feel free to share. If you don’t know what that is, google it. So effing weird. And if you are going to chime in... keep your “you shouldn’t have let her watch it in the first place” theory to yourself. That can has already been opened and cannot be closed, and like I said before, it is a necessary evil at times. To all of the parents going through the same struggle: Hang in there!! You aren’t alone.

#theanxietymom #thingstoworkon #thestruggleisreal

Now that the pain meds are out of my system... I’d like to share a little story to make my friends feel better about getting older. Let’s set the scene...

It was Saturday night, we had a sitter for the kids, and the best 80’s rock tribute band in town was playing at one of our favorite spots!! What could go wrong?!

A lot. A lot could go wrong, actually.

Wearing a cute and reasonably short dress, my most bitchin’ jean jacket (yes... I have more than one), and the most wreckless wedges I could find in my closet... I. Was. Pumped. I would have crimped my hair, but I broke my crimper last month before I hosted 80’s bunco at our crib. Sad news, I know. I hope I get a replacement for Christmas. 🤞I digress. We called the uber and headed to the venue!

”Excuse me? No seats? Standing room only?” Not a problem!! I planned to dance the night away anyhow. We headed to the 5’ x 5’ “pit” at the front of the stage, where EVERYONE could see our sweet moves. All of them. Two drinks and a quart sized lemon drop shot later, our moves were getting better... and bigger. My girlfriend and I bumped shoulders and “oopsies!!” I spilled a little of my drink on the floor. I hoped no one saw that. Little did I know that I was about to banana peel slip on that “little” amount of what is believed to have been a vodka Diet Coke and bust my big 80’s-born ass in front of ALL of the folks fortunate to get seats that evening. Brett Michaels down, friends!! Arm. Broken. Audience. Flashed. (I told you my dress was short.)

I, like many, have the wonderful reaction to extreme pain of passing out cold. Happened twice before they could get me to the restaurant side of the venue where we could assess the damage. While the rude ass lady who works there continued to chant “oh look at her passing out... she’s obviously wasted”, my husband and friends called in the county’s finest. CCFD. Thank you for your attentiveness and kindness after this unfortunate moonwalking incident. To the ass hat that was more worried about a lawsuit than the new shape my arm had taken in the 20 mins it took for our next uber to get there... I wish I knew who you were. Things were a little fuzzy during “Nothin’ but a Good Time”.

**Sidebar:: We took an uber to the hospital because I learned my lesson last time taking an ambulance when I should have found alternative transportation. Ambulances must be made of Ivory or something, because those bills, my friends, are highway robbery!!**

The driver that took us to the hospital was driving like Cruella DeVille, which made my slightly inebriated husband get the spinnies, but once we got checked in and clarified who we were there for, things started to improve. (SP Fox was throwing up and they thought he was the patient). The nurses were fantastic, doc was a little strange, but all in all an okay experience. X-rays delivered the worst news a tax preparer can get during extension season. Broken radius, wrist joint broken AND dislocated, and surgery required for plates and pins to put my dumbass back together again ASAP. I practically Tonya Harding’ed myself before the tax Olympics.

I swallowed the news and any extra morphine they would give me, and we took the nastiest, smelliest, most uncomfortable taxi ride in the history of taxi rides home at 5AM. Like french fries and bugs in the front seat nasty. To the Woodstock Cab Company... time to step up the standards, friends. Pretty sure the driver was more messed up than I was at that moment.

Surgery went well. Surgeon was a Dawgs fan, our age, and nothing like the ER doc (guy literally looked 13 years old and was such a strange bird). The dust is settled, the bruise on my ego is a faded green color now. Work is going alright, thanks to wonderful coworkers! I’ll be back in action before ya know it. Probably gonna wear flats next time, though. We aren’t spring chickens anymore, friends!!

Takeaway from this unfortunate event: Keep on dancing, just be more careful while doing it!! Stay safe out there, my fellow concert loving friends!

#gettingolder #theanxietymom #gettingboniva #eatcalcium #poison #nothingbutagoodtime ... and a broken arm.

Everyone has a story. Whether your parents are here or there, or you lost someone close to you, each and every one of us has a story. My story is a little colorful. Some people may disagree, but sometimes I feel like I got a lackluster version of the "American Dream". Those that look on from the outside see a girl who got straight A's in school and a senior who had the talent to try out anywhere to be a college cheerleader. I got a brand new car for graduation, a paid tuition to anywhere I wanted to go, and life, looking in, has been breezy ever since.

Let's rewind. I think it is important to express just what my life was as a child, before I point the finger at some folks, whom probably had no idea what was coming to them. Luckily, I grew up in the gym. 5 days and 20 hours a week that was my home. I liked it there. It was less dramatic. No eggshells to walk on. My mom is, and always has been, a strong woman, who used to be blinded by "love". (Who hasn't been?) Do I think my bio dad loved her? Probably so. Do I think she loved him? Yes. He was a smooth talker who had been taught by a smooth talker, who has since found the Lort, and changed his smooth-talking ways.

My. Bio-Dad. Is a character. Not one of which I strive to be like. He is excitable, much like myself. He loves a good party and tells a mean fish story. He would likely say the same about me. We have a very back and forth, love and dislike, relationship. He hates how I am just like my mother... and I love how I am just like my mother. He hates her. I love everything about her.

When I was 9, the man I would know to be my "raise-me" Dad came into the parent picture. When my bio dad was cursing and slamming my mom, Kip (her soon-to-be husband), was lifting her up as I had hoped a spouse would do someday for me. I, 20 something years later, after having had a practice marriage of my own... knowing what it is to compete for the love of my own child, was bound and determined to set a different standard for my child's life. I knew I didn't want him to grow up in what I went through and my son's dad, being the man that he is, wouldn't want that either, so we have (to the best of our ability) done what is best for our child. My husband loves my son, and his father's wife loves him too, and I couldn't wish for anything more.

**Sidebar- my son's stepmother and stepfather are two of the best things that could ever happen to him. I am so thankful for the love they have for him and the commitment they have for our families to be united. I hope that they know that.**

Truth is... in high school, as a college level athlete, I wouldn't go away to college, because I was afraid of what my boyfriend would say. (Now he doesn't matter, but back then his opinion mattered way too much.) My only sibling died in a freak accident that was solely the teacher's responsibility. I have more unresolved issues about this situation than imaginable. I undervalued myself as a young adult, because of the example my bio father gave, and got mixed up in the wrong crowd somewhere in between. One failed marriage and many life lessons later, I have, thankfully, found my person. My mother is sick, and we were told that she is dying (although God and a recent Lyme's disease diagnosis tell us differently.) I am doing the best I can to run my company (which is my mother's legacy - that I hold in the highest regard) in the way that the she would be proud. I am burning the candle at both ends and, let's be honest, I am tired.

Life is beautiful. I have some friends battling cancer, I have some that are battling infertility, some that have just gone into remission, and some that have recently gotten pregnant after a long road trying to get there. I am grateful for every winding road that has led me to where I am, and my sweet friends to where you are. God bless each and every one of you. I will pray for you and I ask that you pray for me too.

Tears are painful. Tears are necessary. They pierce the heart and relieve the soul. We hold them in to show we are strong , but we when we let them go we are relieved, and reminded that He is with us every step of the way.

Sometimes we just have to let it out and, lucky for me, I created a free blog site not too long ago to tell you folks how I really feel about shit. 😊

Goodnight and God Bless!

CJ

From Mt. Foldmore to Mt. Washmore, one may think they are on a family vacation to the Rockies when coming to stay at the Jones castle. Laundry is my nemesis... and here are the bones:

1. Don't, I repeat, DO NOT put clean shit in my laundry room. If I have to wash Spider Bear's pajama pants ONE more time because you are "cleaning" your room I will lose it. And it ain't gonna be pretty. SB is completely potty trained and therefore doesn't need his jammies washed weekly. Throwing a folded shirt in the laundry is also a big problem that little people can catch a charge for in my house. R-E-S-P-E-C-T, find out what it means to me. I don't do laundry for my health, I do it when we are out of underpants. Thanks in advance, fam.

2. Shout out to the moms who wash most loads of laundry more than once before they graduate to the dryer. Not because you want it to be extra clean, but because you had some things come up and er... forgot (?) to switch it over. 104 loads of laundry per container, pshhhhh, my ass! 52 at best in this house. How many times have I been in the middle of doing something and gone "damnit! I did it again!"? I had good intentions when I started it. I'm also a cereal fluffer. I feel like if the dryer is fluffing and doing its job, who am I to stop it to fold the clothes?! That turns into a 5x fluff job per load. Our clothes are extra fluffy. And wrinkled. 🤣

3. The traveling pile is a real mystery to me. I put clean clothes on the bed with the thought that I certainly can't sleep like that, so I will be forced to tackle Mt. Foldmore before my head hits the pillow. In reality, the pile travels from bed to floor and bed to floor approximately 12 times before the next time our favorite visitor comes over. (That would be cleaning Kristi. Yeah.... judge me all you want... I sacrifice two to four dinners out a month so someone else will come clean my house while I'm at work. It's freaking magical and if you are a working mom and have never done it, you should try it at least once if possible. You may never go back.) The only reason the pile gets put away at that point is because there is just no where to move it to make it out of her way... and because I don't want her to know the truth about my laundry problem.

4. Lastly, if I take the time to fold the laundry, and the toddler (or the dogs) comes in while I'm in the shower or something and unfolds the laundry that took me two weeks to tackle , we gonna have a bad morning. Cuteness can only get you so far. She's pretty stinking cute, but laundry also sucks pretty stinking bad. My mother in law has suggested that I do one load of laundry per day to solve my problems. That sounds like my own personal hell. I'd rather just watch a lifetime movie marathon and face my problems with a glass of wine (or 6) on a Sunday afternoon.

Today is Monday, and replacement Kristi is coming tomorrow so I need to cut this short and go fold some clothes. 👚👕👖👔👗👘 (<--- I get so mad when my favorite Kimono is dirty.) Fluff on mamas!! Memories are more important than unwrinkled clothes!

xoxo

CJ

#laundrysucks #theanxietymom #winethoughts #thingstoworkon

Curves are all the rage these days. And by curves I mean Kardashian, not Mama June. I hate to give Kim K props (because the obsession our country has with her makes me very confused), but I'll be darned if that gal doesn't have the biggest booty on a size 4 waist I ever did see. I also have curves, relatively new ones to me. I have to give mad props to college and to my little humans for blessing me with these randomly placed lumps and bumps that will never land me on the cover of Cosmo. #dreamscrushed

I was always in the 10th percentile for height and didn't make the weight chart at the doctor until I was 15 years old. I weighed 79 lbs as a sophomore in high school. I had the metabolism of a grey hound and ate like a high school football player. Those were the days. Big Mac for lunch? Hell! I'll have two! That'll never show up on my double zero ass (who am I kidding? I wore a kids size 14 at best). Then, one summer it happened. I grew inches. Lots of them. And boobs. Lots of them, too. I have hated my body ever since.

I am am so tired of looking back at pictures of my younger self and wishing I was there again. I do not, in reality, wish I was anywhere but right here. Right now. I have three awesome kids, a smokin' hot husband who loves me (and all of my junk), two border collies that belong on the Iams bag, a beautiful home, and a great career. I'm closer to the big man upstairs than ever before and I have found a way to manage my crazy - for the most part (anxiety meds and blogging sure do help with that, my friends). Why, in the hell, am I so discontent with myself?!?

I know why. It's because I can do better for me. That sounds so cliche. "Be a better you!" "Your only competition is the person you were yesterday." "You won't get a tighter ass by sitting on it." Hokey? Absolutely. But not bullshit. There's a whole lotta truth in those little sayings. I {you} will never be a priority in my {your} life unless I {you} make myself {yourself} one. Sounds obvious, but for moms it is practically impossible. With a little bit of time management and better eating habits (I love baked goods so much, it's weird), I could easily have 45 minutes at the gym, four times a week, and a better ass. I have every excuse not to go. Kids, work, housework, blah, blah, blah. Enough already. Never have I ever said: "Man! I really regret burning that calorie. Could you put that dimple back on my thigh, please?"

Dont worry, I won't post any before and after pics. No one should be subjected to that. I won't start taking pre workout and shit you can only get from other countries to get buff. (Anyone who knows me knows that me on pre workout would likely resemble a hamster on meth.) I just needed to give myself a hard time in a public forum so I can spend the rest of the week getting beach ready. We go on vacation on Friday... hence the sudden motivation to lose a layer of love.

#goals #motivation #momlife #thingstoworkon

Look at that sweet little nugget up there 👆. She looks so precious and innocent. Don't let that angelic face fool ya. This photo was taken right after an all out tantrum involving a banana and a border collie. 🍌🐶. It seems it takes next to nothing to send our favorite short people straight to crazytown. I've compiled a list of my favorite fit-enducing household items that me and my little angels have had the pleasure to experience...

1. The Hairbrush. When I get the brush out, my threenager acts like I just pulled out a chainsaw. All I'm trying to do is make you look like a presentable little monster so the teachers at preschool think I've got it together, and here I am, chasing your nekked ass all over the house to do YOU a favor.

**Sidebar:: Chainsaws are effing scary. Toddler or not. A chainsaw in a haunted house will make a 19 year old girl pee in her flare leg jeans. Don't ask me how I know.**

2. The Vaccuum. I get it. It's loud. But what is the worst thing that has happened in the last three years that she has been experiencing this? Maybe having the floors cleaned and the dog hair not present makes her feel like she isn't at home. That must be it. It's not "home" without a canine tumbleweed rolling across the living room 😖. Sorry sister... if I vaccuum any less, the house may be condemned.

3. The seatbelt. Okay... this one has some legitimacy to it. I pinched her leg once. Now she looks like a wet cat going into the bathtub when it's time to strap in the car seat.

4. Baby wipes. They seem harmless. She doesn't mind them when I am cleaning her lady bits because she refused to use the big girl potty, but if that wipe gets anywhere close to the macaroni covered face - she WILL lose her mind.

**Sidebar:: I was changing her diaper the other day and complaining about the nastiest poop of the month, and she literally picked her head up and said "Stop. Whining. Mommy." I shit you not. I was floored. Silver lining... At least I know she understands me when I tell her to stop whining.**

5. Bandaids. I was terrified of bandaids as a child. I would sooner bleed out than put that pony covered bandage on my boo boo. My first born is the same way. It's like the world's way of telling me: "see how ridiculous that looks?!?". One of my best gal pals has a daughter who insisted on bringing her own bandaids to the doctor 🤣. As if the ones they provided wouldn't do the trick. I trust you to stick a needle in my leg, but those bunk ass Sesame Street bandaids ain't gonna cut it. This is clearly a job for Doc McStuffins.

6. The Hairdryer. Again, the noise, I know. But she would rather go through the torture of me tightly French braiding her hair, Bahamas style (without the beads or hair bugs), than sit for two minutes with the dryer on low. Her hair is as thin as The Donald's real hair, so takes a good 15 minutes to braid. Drama. Queen.

7. Mr. Chuck E. Cheese. I realize this is not a household item, but a household name no doubt. That ugly rodent, that happens to be the face of one of the funnest kids' places in America (per them), strikes more fear in the heart of my little bird than anything I've ever seen. Once she sees him for the first time, she spends the next two hours prancing around every corner like the Pink Panther, on the lookout for that rat. Sometimes weird marketing works. Chuck E. Cheese is a prime example of that.

Do I think it's funny to see her run from a full grown person dressed as a mouse? Absolutely, but sometimes these moments remind me how big the world must seem to them. It's hard out there for a toddler. If Yao Ming were chasing me wearing a mask, I'd run too. Sometimes it's not as much about her being dramatic as it is rational. I need to be more patient with her little people fears. They are real to her and that's what matters.

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