A lot of people write posts for seven years...

It's been nearly two weeks since my last post (I know you were counting the minutes, don't be shy. Ha. HA. Just humor me). I have one post about half way done and I'm just...stuck. I don't know. I look at it and it's not doing what I want it to, so I'm basically at this point with it

This blog is your home, post! Are you too good for your blog now? Answer me!

Anybody else allowed to watch Adam Sandler (and Chris Farley and David Spade and and and...) movies way too young as a kid and as a result speaks largely in former SNL cast member quotes? No? Just an 8 year old Emily? Alright then. 

ANYWAY. I've been working on above said post for days now, which is crazytown ridiculous. It should not be that hard, but I've entered into that head space where you second (and third and fourth and fifteenth) guess yourself about every. Single. Thing. And while that's SO much fun and I really couldn't think of a better, more productive way to spend my time, I've decided to put it on the back burner for a hot second and try something out. I'm giving myself an hour to type and whatever comes out is what I post (run on sentences and all. Sorry, mom!). 

(So far I've spent a good chunk of my limited amount of time looking for that picture and double checking that I really was only 8 years old when my dad let me first watch Happy Gilmore. So much about my childhood can be explained by these decisions. I will go into more detail in my new book "Emily: Girl with the Tommy Boy Tattoo." Forward by: my future therapist.)

Can my whole post just be an explanation about thinking too hard and pushing myself to write whatever first comes to my brain and 90's movies? Because right now I'm sitting on my back porch, beer in hand, husband by my side, sun setting over our 3 acres, and I'm a million percent more content than I have been all day. I struggled and fought my brain all day and apparently it was all for naught. Poor bugger was just burned out and waiting for me to catch up to that fact. Done. Caught up. 

(Time's up)

An Open Letter to the Childhood Brain

An Open Letter to the Childhood Brain

July 15, 2015 (I originally wrote 2014. This is your fault)

Dear Childhood Brain,

We've been close, if not sometimes wary companions for nearly seven years now. I'm in constant awe of the way you work and the new things you learn every day. But I think it's time we had a heart-to-heart about your methods. Because right now I'm going on roughly five hours of sleep and they seem straight up bonkers. 

Sleep. There's a seemingly simple concept. Let's start there. 

Eight Years of Marriage (Hollaaa!)

Today is Dan and my eight year wedding anniversary (!!!). I was going to try and do a whole "8 Things I've Learned in 8 Years" post and click bait the heck out of it ("I never thought I'd live to see #3!"), but the list was getting long and exhaustive and my kids were getting sick of hearing, "I swear, mom's almost done on the computer. Just 5 more hours. Can you go hang out with your other mom, Netflix, for awhile?" I narrowed it down and boom!

Sippy cups are dumb (but I may be dumber)

Last week I decided to buy Matty his first sippy cup. After spending way too much time deciding, I bought a traditional soft spout lid and one with a straw (this is fascinating, right? Please don't leave me). I brought them home, quickly remembered it is literally impossible to teach someone how to drink from a straw ("Just...suck. I DON'T KNOW.") and settled on the spouted lid as his starter cup.

I tore it out of the package and threw the directions away immediately. Directions, are you kidding me? I have three kids, I think I know how a sippy cup works. The thing you do is literally in the name. Sip from this Cup. Give me some credit, please.

The Voice that Never Shuts Up

I spend a lot of time actively rooting against myself.

Part of me wants to succeed (however that may be) so badly. I want to create and be bold and release things out into the world, if only to say that I did. I've got some serious Ariel in an underwater cave longing, to do and be more. More than the stupid loud Voice in my head says I'm not.

Mabel Learns

My middle child is a risk taker. She's beautiful and feisty and a button pusher (both figuratively and literally. If there's a button, she's pushing it). She has to figure things out for herself. You can warn her all day long about the consequences of a certain action, but she won't stop until she has seen the end result for herself. For better or for worse.  

Case in point: 

Poor Abe. Fella just can't catch a break. 

Motherhood (and what I didn't know)

Before I had kids, I didn't know...

Well, I could end that whole sentence there, really. I didn't know so much. I wasn't prepared for all the things I didn't know. I don't just mean about kids (though I could write for a hundred years on that topic and still not be done telling you all that I don't know about them). What I didn't know about was motherhood, specifically how it affected the women around me.