Edie being Edie

I stood in the kitchen one late afternoon last week, emphatically imploring Edie to stop doing whatever it was that she was doing. I can't even remember specifically what she was doing but I know without doubt that it was wearing thin any remaining patience I possessed from another long day in the trenches. 

After bickering back and forth for what felt like a lifetime, Edie sighed, clearly exasperated. She closed her eyes and took in a slow, deep breath. As she opened her eyes, she put her right hand on her hip and, with her tiny chubby finger, pointed to the clock on the wall and said,

"Mom, you see that clock on the wall over dare?!

It says it's time for you to stop and leave me alone!" 

Well played, Edie. Well played. 

five things | baecation

Joe and I got back Sunday afternoon from Charleston, South Carolina, where we spent four days-- WITHOUT OUR CHILDREN -- drinking wine, eating raw oysters and po' boys, having sex without being interrupted by a cock-blocking three year old, and lying around in the sun by the pool, and playing the "Would You Rather" game to hilarious affect. 

Here are five things I learned while on baecation with my number one:

1. After both listening to this podcast featuring Esther Perel at least three times each, Joe and I realized and mutually agreed on a very key detail: to assume that we know all there is to know about our spouse is essentially relationship suicide. Active curiosity within your partnership, specifically about your partner, is imperative. If we ignorantly assume that we know all there is to know about our partner after, say.... twelve years, the next fifty or sixty are going to be pretty fucking boring, don't you think? While on vacation, we decided to take this advice quite literally. We played a running game of 20 Questions for four straight days and, as corny as it sounds, we discovered so many neat and peculiar things about each other-- things we previously didn't. We learned things that caught us off guard because we assumed we'd answer completely differently than we did. Some of our answers made us laugh our assess off while others possessed a degree of honesty that humbled us, erasing any preconceived notions we held about the other. It was fun, it was enlightening, and it was evidence that curiosity is not only a virtue, it's an emotional and physical aphrodisiac. 

2. I used to believe that our children were the cornerstone of our family's foundation simply because all of our focus was on them for the majority of our time. However, I couldn't have been more wrong. My relationship with Joe is solely responsible for our family therefore, if we ignore our relationship-- our foundation-- and allow it to crumble due to negligence, everything our relationship has created will follow suit. Nurturing our marriage, focusing only on each other, and taking the time to delve deep into each other' needs-- emotionally AND physically, natch -- will only strengthen our family as an entire unit. 

3. Post-vacation depression is real and debilitating. Tell me you know what I'm talking about, please!?!

4. If you're visiting Charleston, here is my advice: stay at the Market Pavilion or the Restoration (they both have rooftop pools), bring a hat and sunscreen, go to 167 Raw (be prepared to wait and sit in front of the kitchen if you can. Shake Russ's hand, the chef, if you can manage and shake it like you mean it. He'll call you out if you come at him with the limp wrist. For the record, I was not called out.) The Ordinary (sit at the bar and ask for Trey. Order the tartare with crispy oysters and the crab toast. Thank me later.), The Darling Oyster Bar (the grilled octopus salad BLEW OUR DAMN MINDS. By far, the best thing we ate all weekend and we ate a lot of fucking food.), The Daily (great little breakfast spot further down north King Street with avocado toast and iced matcha if you're into that kind of hipster thing), and Butcher & Bee (drink a glass of rosé or three and get real rebellious and order yourself the double cheese burger with fries. You're on vacation after all so JUST EAT THE DAMN CHEESEBURGER.)

5. It took me three full days to miss the kids and, though I probably should, I don't feel an ounce of guilt about that. But that fourth day?! Holy hell. You could not get me home to my girls and get Knox onto my hip fast enough. The emotional longing felt physical and desperate and impossibly overwhelming. Seeing their happy, eager faces upon reunion felt like the emotional equivalent to all of my puzzle pieces being put back together. Because the truth is that as much as I need and love getting away and as much as I know that detaching from Mom Mode is healthy for everyone, my home is wherever those three impossible humans are. 

And it feels really, really good to be home, a little tanner, and a lot more in love. 

say, cheese!

Did you know that there's such a thing as Cheese Week? I did not and now feel as though I've been living under a can of processed Cheese-Whiz.

It seemed too good to be true but, alas, when Bon Appétit sent me an email earlier this week with the subject Cheese Week is Here and Here Are the 25 Most Important Cheeses in America, I asked no questions. I simply reveled in the fact that I live in a world that dedicates a full seven days to the glory that is stinky cheese.

When in the face with such conspicuously declared dairy greatness, it seems only natural to rebel against one' own lactose intolerance and proceed to ordering sixty-five dollars (as one does) worth of funky-as-fuck cheese from a store in Brooklyn to gorge yourself on while your husband is out of town next week. It's not that I'm opposed to sharing, though, let me be frank... there are certain things I refuse to share with anyone and an aged, stinky cheese is one of them. You can call me selfish if you want when, in fact, I'm actually being selflessly courteous of my husband because nobody-- and I do mean NOBODY-- needs to be sleeping next to me when the affects of my lactose intolerance and eating all said funky-as-fuck cheeses kicks in.

Just living my best gassy life over here, people.

Just. Living. My. Best. Life. 

this is us

When your boyfriend of a few years breaks up with you via text message while he's drunk in Atlanta as you actively move your socks into an emptied drawer in his apartment, do not fret. Still call him every name in the book because he deserves to hear it. Just don't worry so much about what comes after that text message and the name calling. You will recover. He will keep his word and put forth continuous effort to avoid being-- in your words after the text message in question-- such a "spineless mother fucker." He will become one of the best men you've ever known. He will always have your back. He will stand strong and see you through some of your darkest days. He will still make mistakes and so will you-- some bigger than others-- but you will no longer regret that text message, if only because what comes after that text message is so much more important than whatever came before it. 

Long after the humiliation fades and that unfortunate situation becomes an inside joke the two of you can both laugh at, you will find yourself lying wide awake in the dark of night beside that same sleeping man in a human Tetris pile with three tiny souls who use your thighs and stomachs as pillows and your ribs as a punching bag. You will feel crowded. You will wish for more personal space.  For a single second, you will decide that you miss the days when your only problem was your boyfriend breaking up with you with a text message as you moved your underthings into his beat up Ikea dresser. 

You will look again at the man with the dark hair and the bad jokes and the light eyes that have always given away his smile, and it'll become obvious that it will never, ever be any better than it is in that moment. Listening to your middle baby snore and wildly flail her arms in her sleep... watching your son' bottom lip quiver... becoming alarmed at just how obscenely long your oldest daughter' legs have gotten recently. 

As you alternate staring at the three beautiful babies haphazardly layered between you and the man with a rogue toddler foot beside his right cheek and your own worn, soft body that housed and birthed and sustained them, it will occur to you that very few I told you so's will ever feel as good as this one. 

The necessary ass sweater

So, I finally figured out what I want for my birthday. These black knit Balmain granny panties that cost a mere $495. So practical. So reasonably priced. So necessary.

I'm just kidding. I only want a nap and to be left alone in the bathroom. But if I had to guess, the absurd ass sweater is more likely than pooping in peace ever will be.