Remember the days you thought 7am was oh-so early?

When you used to spend all day Sunday on the couch watching VH1?

I used to think I knew what being tired felt like-something I could cure by sleeping in until noon the next day or adding an extra shot to my Americano. But then I started having children.  And I’ve been tired in some capacity ever since!

And it’s not just me.  Everyone around me with kids under five just seem like they would happily curl up into a ball and take a catnap if given the chance. And all the B12 in the world doesn’t seem to make it any better.  Believe me, I’ve tried the shot in my ass, the pill and even that new nasal B12.  And I’m still f*cking tired!

My now three-year-old didn’t sleep AT ALL the first year and I used to walk around like a zombie, wearing my exhaustion like a badge of honor, daring anyone within fifty feet to try to compete with my tiredness.  I quickly discovered that  long-term sleep deprivation made me a humorless beyotch with bad skin.

Had to wake up at 6am to make it to Yogalates? Boo F’ing Hoo!

Stayed out too late with the girls and had to recover by watching SATC on TBS for four hours straight the next day? I’m hatin’ on you just a little bit.

Anytime anyone over the age of ten gets to take a daytime nap? Super. Insanely. Jealous.

And even though most nights my munchkins now sleep peacefully, (although sadly WILL NOT sleep past 6am, no matter how late we keep them up) I still find myself tired most of the time.  Not the bone-aching, mind-numbing newborn baby tired, but more like a constant feeling like I’d like to stop whatever I’m doing and go lie in bed. Which btw, is a very impractical thought when you’re in the middle of a presentation at work.  Or in the middle of a conversation with, well, ANYONE!

And while I recognize that heading out for a jog or spending some time at the gym would help this problem, I just can’t seem to find the time or motivation to drag myself there.  The thought of waking up at 4am to go the the gym makes me want to take a free weight and punch the person in the face who suggested it.  Or wrap them up in a Pilates mat and roll them down a hill. Or use them as my kickboxing class punching bag.

And don’t even get me started on that research that claims you need to get at least seven and a half hours of sleep each night in order to lose weight.  Another strike against any mommy trying desperately to take off those last eight pounds. Clearly a man came up with that sh*t!

So until I reach that promised land where my children are able to wake up and get dressed without parental assistance, I will remain slightly tired at all times. And I’d like to give Lisa a big shout out for enduring MANY early morning bitchface emails from me! Sorry!  I should be banned from any forms of communication besides grunting before 7am.

So to all you tired mommies out there, this one’s for you.  Let’s band together in our slight everyday crankiness.  Tired Mommies Unite!

And for those of you who think this post is kinda bitchy, sorry! I was super tired when I wrote it. =)  To make it up to you, I’m giving away a SIGNED copy of Emily Giffin’s latest release, Heart of The Matter. Leave a comment to be entered!

xoxo, Liz

©2012 Chick Lit Is Not Dead. All Rights Reserved.

Kids? What Kids?

Three babysitters.

Five months of planning

A ten page long to-do list.

Four days of child-free bliss in a foreign country

Remember the days when all you needed to get away was a passport and some vacation time?  My hubs and I used to pride ourselves on perfecting the “last-minute” vacay, trying to prove that we were just too cool to actually plan our long weekends in advance.  And maybe booking a flight to Vegas that was departing in two hours gave me a slight adrenaline rush. (Well, that and knowing I’d be screaming BLACKJACK! in three hours.)

But all those things changed the day we had children.

Now, we practically have to set up a tactical control center in order to have a child-free weekend.  The Oscars have been put on with less planning (and it shows!) than our recent trip across the border. Okay, so maybe purchasing an earpiece and a mic to speak into while coordinating the school drop-off and picks ups was a bit too much.  But I’d like to think that my to-do list would’ve brought even the biggest A-lister to their knees.  I was determined to board my Mexicana flight with a margarita in hand and not a care in the world. (Well, except for the fact that we were flying Mexicana. But that’s a whole other blog.)

But things didn’t go exactly according to plan.  But, no worries, we were still able to have quite the fiesta(and more importantly, a siesta) in the lovely city of Cabo San Jose.

And because I’m such a giver, I’d thought that I would give y’all some tips for the next time you’re stupid brave enough to have the balls to actually try to have some time to yourself:

1. Try to schedule as many people to watch your children as possible. Because nothing says “I Love You” to your kids more than passing them off to THREE different caregivers during a four-day period.

2. Make sure that at least one childhood milestone happens while you are away. It’s fine.  I didn’t want to see that first tooth come out anyway-too much blood and crying for me.  And that lame movie starring The Rock totally ruined the whole Tooth Fairy thing for me anyway.

3. Book a resort that has spotty cell phone reception Because nothing makes you want to party down more than when you can’t figure out whether your children actually made it to school.  And squeezing yourself in between the TV console and sliding glass door in order to get one bar of cell reception after eating a pound of chips and guacamole is just unflattering. Trust me.

4. Spend more on the trip than the babysitters Thankfully, our resort was serving up fourteen dollar margaritas or this might not have happened. Whew! That was a close one. A big shout out to Cabo Azul’s swim-up pool bar for helping us out!

5. When you DO find cell phone reception, make sure to phone when the children have no desire to speak with you. Because it really warms your heart when your five year-old screams “HI! BYE!”  into the phone after you’ve just spent ten minutes trying to figure how the hell to dial 011 before your home phone number. (Or was that 001? Maybe that’s why it took 10 minutes. So confusing!)

Okay, there you have it! A big thank you to all the wonderful friends who watched our little rugrats so we could eat a meal that lasted longer than thirty minutes and actually digest our food. Thanks to you, they didn’t miss us at all! xoxoxo

©2012 Chick Lit Is Not Dead. All Rights Reserved.

Giving beer goggles a whole new meaning...

Girls night out. Three beautiful words that always seem to light up the faces of whoever utters them.  Back in the day, it meant putting on your favorite pair of Seven jeans and going on the prowl for Mr. Right-dancing the night away at your favorite club and eating Jack in the Box at three in the morning.

And when I did find Mr. Right,  I was so smitten that I was willing to gain seventy pounds, not once, but TWICE in order to bear him two children.  And somewhere along the way I started saying N-O to GNO.

At first, it was because I was pregnant for what seemed like three years straight.  During which time I would only stay up past midnight when I was rocking a screaming baby.  Or cleaning their throw up off my pajamas. Or trying in vain to fall back asleep after my little darling crawled into our bed, giving me approximately three inches of space. (WHY do they always come to my side?)

And let’s not even bring up those last ten pounds of  baby weight that was still firmly cemented on my body, making a mockery of me each time I dared try to squeeze into one of those old GNO tops that still hung in the back of the closet.

But something happened when my youngest turned two.  Finally able to get a good night’s sleep, I  found the energy to care about more than how I could manipulate my daughter into picking the shortest book on her bookshelf to read that night or how to get my son to eat something other than pasta. And the baby weight?  I went on Weight Watchers and rid myself of that damn muffin top that had been plaguing me each time I shoved my ass into those Seven jeans.

I was back, baby!  It was time to get my GNO on.

I had GNOed sporadically during what I like to call the “battleground years”.  But each time, all I could think of was the hell I would pay the next day.  That it would take me a week to recover from staying out too late and having a cocktail or two.  Or I’d be so tired that I’d almost fall asleep in my champagne, barely able to hold up my end of the conversation. And while my husband and I attempted to have a date night each month, I found myself daydreaming at dinner about getting a hotel room by myself so I could sleep in peace for a few hours.

Thank God those days were over- I had finally reached the promised land! Well-rested and sporting my pre-prego jeans, I was ready to take on the world! 

Happy hour? Bring on the half-priced appetizers!!

Friend just got dumped and needed some girl time to recuperate? I’m your gal! 

Want to celebrate your latest promotion? I’ll have the champagne waiting!

The world was my oyster once more.  Or at the very least, I was going places where they served oysters instead of chicken strips and fries.

And it was about so much more than just having a glass of wine.  It was about reconnecting with the person I was before I had kids-the one who used to play tennis, read three books a week and was the life of the party. And cultivating all those beautiful friendships again that I missed so much. (There’s only so many poo-poo and  spit up talks people are willing to have with you!)

While I love my kids and feel incredibly blessed to have them, I’m not ashamed to admit that there’s a part of me that misses my pre-mommy self. And even though  I’ll never again be the girl who dances on the tables, (long story!) I  like to think that by making time for myself every so often, I’ll find a nice middle ground that both myself and my family can live with.  Because I don’t believe that being a great mom means you have to give up who you used to be or the friendships that keep you grounded.

So next time you’re invited to GNO-don’t say N-O.  Remember that Mommy needs some me time too.  I’ll see you there-I’ll be the one toasting you from across the room.

Do you make time for yourself?  Leave a comment and be entered to win one of FOUR copies of Irene Zutell’s breakout novel Pieces of Happily Ever After, an intriguing story about a mom who struggles to find herself after her husband dumps her for an A-list celebrity.

xo, Liz

©2012 Chick Lit Is Not Dead. All Rights Reserved.

Most parents dread the day they have to explain the concept of death to their children.  That they’ll have to shatter their belief that we’ll all be here forever. And while some people like to go with  Honey, we sent Daisy the dog to live with another family when their animals pass, I’ve always been more of a realist.

When Goofy the guinea pig inexplicably dropped dead last year, I gave it to my five- year-old straight.  And what else could I do, considering the fact that we had found her lifeless body together?  She was pretty upset, but after a proper burial, impromptu memorial service in the backyard and a brand new guinea the next week, she seemed to move on pretty quickly. *big sigh of relief*

But when our beloved German Shepard, Jordan, collapsed late Tuesday night, explaining to a five year old that the dog she’s loved since she was born might not come home was a whole other story.

In fact, it was one of my first thoughts as I raced to the “Animal ER”.  (Well, that and the fact that “Animal ER” would make a great reality show) As I waited the THREE HOURS to see Dr. McDoggy, I wondered what I’d say to the kids when she wasn’t there to lick their faces in the morning and silently prayed that she had just eaten something really, really bad.  But four hours and *gasp* $1500 (WTF! Are animals eligible for universal health care too?) later, Dr. McDoggy gave me the diagnosis and it wasn’t good. Jordan had cancer.

Needless to say, it was turning into a bad night.  The only bright spot? That Dr. McDoggy was damn cute.  And had an accent. In fact, his only flaw was his tendency to have more dramatic pauses in his speech than Ryan Seacrest on elimination night of American Idol. It’s 4am, dude! Just spit it out!

And because I believe in being honest, I broke the news to the kids the next day.  That Jordan was very sick, she may not be with us much longer, so let’s just give her all the love and enjoy every minute that she’s with us. That should do it, right?

WRONG.

*insert three hours of screaming and crying followed by thousands of uncomfortable theological questions*

But now a few days later, they seem to be getting through it. But I have to say, there is a part of me that wishes we hadn’t told them. Which begs the question: How long should we shield our kids from death?

I’ve always been the mom that told my kids that if they crossed the street without me, they would get hit by a car. Same story with the pool.  Don’t go in without Mommy. Why?  Because you’ll drown.  And while some of my friends thought my approach was a bit, um, harsh, I always felt like it was better for them to know that if they step out in front of a moving car, the shit’s going to hit the fan.

But now, I’m not as sure.  Life and death are such complex concepts that I’m not sure they grasp them.  And the last thing I want is for my kids walking around being scared to death of, well, death!

Sadly, our elderly neighbor passed away this week. And after my experience with Jordan, when the kids asked me why I was buying his wife flowers last night, I just smiled and said nothing.  Because I think they’ve had enough life lessons for one week.

xo, Liz

©2012 Chick Lit Is Not Dead. All Rights Reserved.

Just throw ONE flower. PLEASE!

Over the years, I’ve found myself in A LOT of wedding parties.  I always seem to snag that last bridesmaid spot, edging out a distant cousin or a old friend who just hasn’t been pulling their weight the past couple of years. In fact, if my writing career doesn’t work out, I’ve always thought I could rent myself out to desperate brides who are lacking a bulldog bridesmaid.  Because doesn’t every bride need a McGyver on their team on their big day? Someone who can perform miracles with a safety pin but who will also do tequila shots and the chicken dance?

When I said “I Do” last Fall when Lisa asked me to be her MOH, I felt slightly panicked.  It had been a while since my last tour of duty and I wondered if I still had it in me.  The last time I had served, I had been three months pregnant with my son and had to have my purple chiffon dress taken out more times than I care to admit and secretly worried I might throw up on my bride if the wrong smell crossed my path.  But on that special day, I put my 24/7 nauseousness aside and bustled like nobody’s business.  And as I waved goodbye to them as they sped off in their limo to their honeymoon, I sighed and decided it was time to retire my status as perpetual wedding party member.  Putting all that work in without the free drink payoff just didn’t feel the same.

But when Lisa got engaged, I was ready. I’d had four years off and was ready to get back on the wedding party circuit-and the fact that I’d be reporting to a couple that I adored was just a bonus.  And for the most part, Lisa was the most easygoing bride I had ever worked for.  She let me choose my own dress and didn’t make me have big ol’ prom hair.  In fact, she really didn’t make me do much of anything before the big day.  But I think that deep down, we both knew that was because she wanted me to be ready for battle when it counted.  And I was!  That morning, I wrangled guests, acted a photographer and DJ in the bridal suite and even held my tongue when I had my makeup done (She was great-but because of my alligator skin I gave “pancake face” a whole new meaning!).  I had my A game on people!

Until my children showed up.

When Lisa generously asked my three and five-year olds to be in her wedding party, little did I know that having them there might mess up my MOHness.  I was too blinded by visions of them floating down the aisle in their Sunday best, although the reality included, me, bent over, walking down the aisle with them while begging my daughter to throw just ONE damn flower.

So when they showed up in the bridal suite, demanding my attention, I was torn.  I had made a commitment to serve my bride.  How did I merge that with the fact that my daughter was walking around with her gold ballet slippers on the wrong feet and wanted to color on her cream tights? Or the guilt I felt when I whacked my three-year-old’s head with my papparazzi camera as I tried to get the money shot of Lisa’s toast at the rehearsal dinner the night before?

So when crunch time arrived, I was a bit flustered.  Trying to smile as the photographer snapped pictures of me applying Lisa’s lipstick, (What can I say, I’m a full-service MOH!) I prayed that he’d crop out the crying child hanging on to my leg and begging to come play “just one game” of Old Maid. And I’m crossing my fingers that my son was too busy with his hot wheels to notice that I drank half the bottle of “Mommy apple juice”.

But at the end of the day, we all had a wonderful time. Thanks to a great friend, the hubs and I were able to party that night with our peeps in peace and sleep in the next morning. (Thanks Patrice!) And even though it was way more stressful to have my little rugrats taking part of Lisa’s big day than if they had stayed home, I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

I’ll never forget how it felt to hear my daughter take a deep breath in when she saw Lisa for the first time in her (gorgeous!) dress or the way my son shyly watched her from the doorway as we arranged her veil.  I’m always amazed by how much more work everything is when the kids are involved, but at the same time infinitely more rewarding. As always, the joys of parenting are always in the little things.

xo, Liz

©2012 Chick Lit Is Not Dead. All Rights Reserved.

Happy Monday y’all!

To celebrate Mommy Monday, we’re giving away two copies of KEEP YOUR SKIRT ON by Starshine Roshell. It’s a smart, sassy collection of her kicky columns with legs for GenX Moms everywhere that will have you LOLing.  Just leave a comment to enter!

Considering the fact that I had to squeeze time in to write this post in between softball games, swimming lessons and soccer signups, I’d thought that today we’d discuss why the hell we overschedule our children(and ourselves) to death.

Now, before we go any further, let me just say that I’m a huge part of the problem. I find myself in a constant frenzy, not only trying to figure out when and where to sign up for all this shit, but how to find time to get them there. (Btw, Coach Steve, 1:30pm weekday practices are NOT convenient. Doesn’t anyone have a J-O-B around here?)

I’m almost embarrassed to admit to the meltdown I had two weeks ago when my daughter’s softball league was up in the air due to a lack of sign-ups.  I literally thought to myself, Great! She’ll NEVER make it in softball now. I envisioned her blaming me for years to come whenever the subject came up.  That I was sentencing her to a lifetime of inadequacy on the softball field.   Oh, did I mention that she’s barely FIVE YEARS OLD?

And it doesn’t help that sometimes our well-meaning Mom friends make us feel as if we just stepped up on stage to pick up the Lamest Parent of the Year award.

Geez.  That’s too bad.  Because you really should have her out on the field by five.

That’s okay.  She can still play for fun!

And you missed AYSO signups too? (insert silent judgement here)

It seems that often we are so obsessed about giving our child every advantage, or to righting every percieved wrong from our childhood, that it can be pretty damn easy to lose perspective.  I’m sure I’m not the only mom who’s stomach churns when she realized that her friend’s children are swimming like Michael Phelps while her little rugrats are still hanging on to their floaties for dear life.  Or when she saw the adorable photos of her niece’s dance recital on Facebook and second guessed her decision to sign her little princess up for soccer instead, secretly wondering if she’s doomed her to tomboy status her entire childhood.

And just for the record, I don’t know what the answers are. I’m down here with you in the trenches, trying to figure out how to find the balance between active and overscheduled kids. I’m just saying that the next time your Mommy friend calls you up in a panic that little Johnny is never going to make it in the big leagues because she missed his tee-ball sign ups, just remind her gently that she’s losing her damn mind.  And then help her put things in perspective. She’ll love you for it, I promise.

xoxo, Liz

©2012 Chick Lit Is Not Dead. All Rights Reserved.

Welcome to CLIND’s first ever MOMMY MONDAY! And to celebrate, we’re giving away three copies of Kristin Hannah’s latest release, WINTER GARDEN, a story about mothers and daughters.  Just leave a comment to enter!

Today, I’m going to be bitching discussing how gender roles come into play when parenting.  Or in simpler terms, Why Daddy always gets to be the good guy.

I’ve always known that my husband was higher up on the fun-o-meter than me.  His willingness to act as a human submarine in the pool and ability to hold the children on his shoulders for hours were constant reminders.  And for the most part, I’ve always kind of accepted the fact that, well, the kids seem to like him better than me.

Photographic evidence that Mommy DOES go in the pool.

I’ve learned the hard way that cooking their food, purchasing their clothes and, oh, what was the other thing?  Oh yeah, GIVING BIRTH TO THEM just didn’t hold the same weight as playing Chutes and Ladders twenty times in a row. Or that I didn’t go on the pool slide as much as Daddy while vacationing in Maui.  Hmm, is this where I bring up that we WOULDN’T be on vacation if it weren’t for Mommy?  Should I mention the hours Mommy spent scouring the internet for those legendary yet impossible to find internet travel bargains? (Well, I *might*  have squeezed in a little Facebook time too. But you see my point.)

Not that I don’t spend quality time with the kids-I do.  In fact, nothing makes me happier than taking them to the Farmers market or reading their favorite books at bedtime.  But I’m never going to build structurally sound tent cities or Lincoln log houses the way my hubby does.  Just in the same way that he can barely operate the microwave and starts sweating the minute he’s tasked to purchase items unsupervised at the store. (He learned the hard way why you don’t purchase the fruit with the “manager’s special” sticker on them!)

Don’t get me wrong -I’m incredibly thankful that my husband is a wonderful father. I just wish we could share the glory from all of our hard work. Now I know how the Vice President must feel. Or that guy that only got to host American Idol the first year. Or the people who actually sang those Milli Vanilli songs.

So the next time my daughter tells me that I’m not fun like Daddy because I won’t play Memory a third time, (Which, btw, is more due to an actual lack of memory than playfulness…) I’ll show her this.  I like to call it my Mommies needs love too list.

• I’m so happy that you and Daddy had fun playing superheroes all morning. It’s too bad that Mommy’s the one that needs to be burning  calories.  But the only running Mommy seems to do these days is into Starbucks when she’s late for work.

• I understand that you love playing  tee ball with Daddy in the backyard, but does he let you stir the cupcake batter or let you roll the homemade pizza dough like Mommy?  On second thought, Does Daddy even know how to turn on the oven?

• Yes, it’s so fun to play with Daddy in the pool for hours. But isn’t it nice to have a Mommy doesn’t look like a HOT MESS with her air-dried hair? And on that note, Did you see Mommy’s belly button last time she wore a bikini? Not. Right. At. All. Mommy loves you so much that she was willing to give up ever feeling comfortable in a bathing suit ever again.

• Thank you so much for reminding me that Daddy is PERFECT when I put you to bed last night. I’ll try to keep that in mind the next time we receive a “special gift” for being such loyal customers to Sportsbook.com.

xoxo, Liz

©2012 Chick Lit Is Not Dead. All Rights Reserved.

Mommy, why aren't the presents wrapped?

People often ask me how I get anything done. With two kids, two dogs, two guinea pigs, and two jobs , life can get a little crazy.  But what they don’t know is that all along I’ve had a secret weapon.  Something that saves me from jumping off a bridge when my “to-do” list spans two pages.

My husband.

I’m not gonna lie, I *might* let some people assume that I  do it all by myself.  And in my defense, Hubby has always been a low-profile type of guy. So, he doesn’t want the credit anyway, right?  Well, at least that’s what I tell myself so I have a good reason to keep my secret weapon “secret”.

Well, at least until he went out of town for a week.

When a business meeting and death in the family came back-to-back, (RIP Grandpa Fenton, this one’s for you!) I found myself Mike-less for a full seven days.  And while I kissed his cheek and bid him safe travels, I was slightly worried, knowing that I was now in charge of his daily chores, aka “all the things Liz HATES to do!”

Take out the trash!

Clean up dog poop!

Do the laundry!

Change that ginormous five gallon water bottle!

Get two children to two different schools in two cities by 8am!

And the thing I hate most:

WRAP THE CHRISTMAS PRESENTS!

Let’s just say that this week gave “bad hair day” a whole new meaning.  I’ve always taken advantage of the fact that Mike takes exactly 15.5 minutes to get ready each morning and load him up with the morning chores while I primp for the day.  Now I was up at the crack of dawn, just so I *might* have the chance to run the straight iron through my hair for five minutes after I fed all the demanding children, dogs and guinea pigs. (Who knew those pigs could scream louder than the kids?)

And each morning, at 8:05am, I walked in to the nearest Starbucks and ordered an extra shot Americano with a satisfied smile on my face.  I did it!  Everyone was clothed, fed, and reasonably happy. (Well, except for those damn guineas, but those f*ckers are impossible to please!)

This week had given me a true appreciation for all the things the hubs does each day.   It had been so long since I taken out the trash that I had no idea where to even find the key to our gate.  And where did we keep the detergent again? So it made me feel good to know that I could do it on my own, if push came to shove.  And btw, this is where I give a HUGE shout out to single Moms and Dads everywhere who do it on their own each day-you have my utmost respect!

But Mike, just so you know, I F’ing ROCKED the TO DO list in your absence.

I got those ridiculously heavy trash cans to the curb even before our anal 80-year neighbor!

I did not one, not two, but THREE loads of laundry. (But do I have to fold and put way too?  I know you have a “system” so I left that part for you.)

I changed the Sparklett’s bottle with minimal water damage to the kitchen floor. (Too bad I can’t say the same for the cashmere sweater I was wearing at the time!)

I wore out the pooper-scooper. (Remind me again why I’ve been begging for a third dog?)

BUT

I left all the Christmas present wrapping for you.  Even I have my limits. And since you’ll be home in plenty of time for Christmas, there’s no reason to tarnish the Fenton name with my lackluster wrapping skills, right?

They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, and now I know why!  Thank you, Hubs, for all that you do each day.  And please know that although I was a totally awesome Mom/Dad hybrid all week, I’m giving all your chores back to you the minute you walk back in the door!

xoxo, Liz

©2012 Chick Lit Is Not Dead. All Rights Reserved.

The other day I was trying to recall at what age I began to care about clothes.  Was it my affinity for that striped sailor shirt and matching mini-skirt in first grade?  Or those knickers I coveted while standing in line for my first Cabbage Patch doll? (Btw, can we just all agree that those pants should never, ever make a comeback?)  Either way, I don’t remember caring that much about what I wore to good ol’ Beaumont Elementary back in the day.

Of course, these days, I do love a good Calvin Klein dress as much as the next girl.  And my favorite color?  Black, of course!

So I guess it shouldn’t surprise me that my daughter’s fashion taste went from Garanimals  to Gucci at the tender age of five.  But thank God she’s more Hello kitty than Juicy Couture, at least for now.

It seemed to happen suddenly.  Overnight she went from happily wearing all the frilly dresses  and ballet slippers lining her closet to demanding that I give all her clothes away to GoodWill (or as she put it “kids with no clothes”) and replace them with skorts and T-shirts.  Because, as she mentioned, dresses were for babies and girls with curly hair. (Um, what?)

And so began the power struggle of all time.  Each morning, I would mentally prepare myself for battle as she ate her waffle.  What would I threaten this morning?  To take away her beloved bear?  Spongebob restriction for a week?  Make her listen to me sing on the way home from school? Nothing seemed to work. It. Was. Ugly.

So using Fall shopping as my excuse to save face, I finally went to Target and bought every single skort I could get my hands on.  And because she had developed some sort of affinity for early 80′s punk fashion, (WTF?) I also picked up a bunch of ugly Gwen Stefani reject T-shirts. knee high socks and boots.  Oh, and guess what her favorite color was now?  Black.  And no, the irony was not lost on me.

Realizing that her insistence about choosing her clothes had become more of an issue of power than fashion, I began to let her dress herself each day.  And being the Type-A control freak that I am, it pained me to watch her put outfits together. But I bit my tongue.

Striped shirt and polka dot skirt? No Problem!

Red and orange together? Why didn’t I think of that?

Wearing a Hello Kitty shirt, skirt, headband, barrettes and sunglasses all at the same time? Talk about brand loyalty! Everyone should look like Hello Kitty threw up on them!

Each day, I would ask, do you want Mommy’s opinion?  And surprisingly, her answer was always NO, MOMMY!  So I obliged.  And guess what? Each week she got a bit better at putting her clothes together. She started to look more Miley Cyrus and a little less Lady Gaga.   In fact, she really seemed to carve out her own look and although it wasn’t exactly my style, I felt proud that she was wanting to lead rather than follow.  Even if it meant she occasionally looks like a cracked-out 80′s rock star.

I just make my husband drop her at school those days so they  blame it on him…

©2012 Chick Lit Is Not Dead. All Rights Reserved.

I’m counting down the minutes until I leave for Hawaii later this week but trying not to think about how many hours and hours it will take me to pack for one husband, two children and a mother-in-law.   And the thought of schlepping all of that sh*t 2500 miles across the Pacific Ocean?  Terrifiying!

But as many of you know, it’s critical to pack wisely when traveling with two children under five. And no one understands that more than me.  Does anyone remember that I’m the bad mommy that forgot MY KID’S SWIMSUITS on our last trip?  I can still hear their angry crying ringing in my ears sometimes. Guess what will be the first thing I pack?

But before we can get to the pool to *relax*, we have to all arrive in one piece with our sanity intact. So for those of you also planning a last minute getaway before school starts, I’d thought I’d kindly provide you with my my must-have checklist!

Don’t you dare say Aloha until you read this!

1. DVD PLAYER WITH EXTENDED BATTERY LIFE- After emptying Target of every Scooby-Doo and Spongebob DVD that was available, I feel confident that it will keep my kids happy even while they are buckled into in a tiny space for FIVE HOURS. *Roll eyes*  Yeah Right!

2. MEDICATION- Um, *just in case* my toddle *allergies* act up on the flight, I want to be prepared.  Oh wait, it helps put him to sleep too? *fakes surprise*  I had no idea!

3. FRUIT SNACKS- Whether you want your fruit snacks shaped liked Tonka trucks, Princesses, Backyardigans, Dora or Einsteins, I’m here for you. Want it roll-up style?  Or in sticker form? By the foot? I’m your gal!  Because nothing stops crying faster than a bag of fruit snacks.  And I’m more than willing to pay the price for the sugar-high later when we are safely on the ground.

4. IPOD- Because Mama might need to go to her “Nick Lachey” happy place after the fifteenth time my son demands to take a “stroll” down the airplane aisle.

5. EARPLUGS- For when that drunk man in the chaise next to me at the pool wants to discuss  health care reform, immigration or what constitutes a valid birth certificate.

6. SLUTTY SHIRT FOR BOOZE CRUISE- Thanks to my MIL, I might actually get a few hours of alone time with Hubby on this trip.  And there’s nothing like a booze cruise to take your mind off the fact that you’ll be kicked all night while sleeping Brady Bunch style with your kids in one bed later that night.

7. SWIM SKORT-To hide the after-effects of too many pupus and Pina Coladas on above-mentioned booze cruise.

8. LIFE VEST FOR TWO-YEAR OLD- Because Mama needs to keep an eye on her drink too.

9. HELLO KITTY-What is it about that damn cat!  All I know is my four-year old daughter will just about anything for a Hello Kitty pencil. It’s like crack for kindergartners.  And I’m willing to pay street value to keep her happy on this trip!

10. HIGH-SPEED CAMERA- So I can be sure to capitalize on the one minute that both children actually look into the camera and smile!

Xoxo, Liz

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