The Rage(r)

How can I help to strip away some of the dogma still attached to getting professional mental health help?

This isn’t something to hide from.

This isn’t something to run from.

This isn’t something that should be whispered about, shunned, ridiculed, or ignored.

I wish to open up a transparent dialogue about mental health, the stigmas attached, and my personal experiences with it all.

This is a humungously broad topic, so there is a high probability that I will get sidetracked and go off on tangents. I apologize for that now.

And although I have a pretty good opening for a different blog, I’m going to focus on one topic, rage.


I’m 30. I’ve had my fair share of experiences with mental health “issues” regarding those around me and how my genetics and environment(s) have manifested in myself. Even now, as I wish to open up a vulnerable dialogue, I realize I have to be very, very careful. Not because of paranoia, but because of real possible dangers. I have 3 children. I let my oldest go live with her father when I was going through a lot of transition(financial abuse, taking care of my elderly grandma, moving, pregnant, and caring for a toddler). I routinely have her and stay involved in her life via the telephone when she’s not with me. For whatever reason, he’s chosen to ignore me when I’ve requested a set visitation schedule. I can give all the possible why’s, but that’s another blog post all in itself. She doesn’t live with me, and although her father has never kept her from me, I do believe that anything I say here can and would be used against me if we ever had to go to court for custody rights.

I’ve already muted 2 of my blog posts for my eyes only, because I realized my most recent ex(the father of my youngest 2), absolutely would be malicious and use everything he could against me(just because). He’s already called DCFS on me with false allegations and tried to have my children taken away from me. He didn’t want them, mind you. He wanted his sister to care for them. For him, it’s strictly about control. When he doesn’t have it, he seeks it, and quite unfortunately for the rest of us, in very unhealthy manners. Several times in the past, he’s said I was out of touch with reality, and mentally unstable. The thing is, he has never spoke any of those words to me, so he never expressed his supposed “concern” for my welfare to me. I’m guessing he was basing my supposed mental diagnoses on my spiritual experiences. But I’m just guessing here…

I’m agnostic. I don’t believe or not believe in any deity/ies, but I have had many, beautiful spiritual experiences. I believe in the power of life and love. I believe there is power in anything that we choose to give power to. I believe in tools and mantras, whether those be a product of my head depends solely on who’s listening. I can find documentation and “science” even, to back up anything I want to contribute to a conversation about spirituality.

For the sake of this article alone, I will not nitpick and discuss my ex’s spiritual experiences. I realize if I choose to call his spiritual views “crazy”, that I should be taking a good, long look into the mirror and doing the same to and with my own experiences. I have been, mind you, I’m just not talking about it now. I’ve already heard several conversations with his sister, who is a clinical therapist, where the word “delusion/al” was used(not all pertaining to me…), so I’m very hesitant to share any of my experiences here or with his family.

Instead, I choose to focus on rage. Thankfully, I’ve only experienced rage around a handful of people my entire life. Unfortunately, they’ve been some of the most monumental: my dad, my brother, my mom(although rarely), a college professor, an ex best friend, and the father of my children. Rage is not characterized by physical violence alone, although it’s often associated with it. I was raised around unpredictable rages. It’s part of what built who I currently am. I don’t want my children to be raised in the same manner, so I’m trying my damndest not to cultivate the same cycle I grew up in. I’m trying a gentler approach, a more mindful approach, one that takes clear communication and effort, rather than terror and guilt. I’m not perfect. I yell. I get fixated on things I should be able to breathe out. When I notice my anxiety rising, I realize it has everything to do with me, and nothing to do with my surroundings. That doesn’t always mean I know how to shut off my nit pickiness(that is associated with anxiety), or that I can magically breathe when I’m having an attack. I’m a single parent, so I can’t just go run by myself, go to the store by myself, fuck, I can’t even go pee BY MYSELF. So occasionally anxiety happens, and it’s ok. You know what’s not ok? Rage.

I’m trying to figure out how to take the stigma away from the rage itself in order to try to help someone else, which is useless, I fully realize, because no one can seek help for anyone else. Ok, so let’s pretend I can magically take the negativity out of the word rage. Let’s get to the whys. Why do people rage? What benefits come from the rage? Why does rage keep repeating itself? I’ve explored and read about a lot of theories. Obviously, we all have different perspectives. My life is viewed ENTIRELY differently than that of my brother, and we grew up in the same childhood home. I share some genetics, but that’s about it. I’ve researched different personality disorders, even labeled a few, but labels don’t necessarily help us if they’re met with disgust, unease, and silence.

My ex rages.

That’s a pretty simple statement. He’d probably try to dissect it to attempt to tell me that his way of communicating when he’s angry is not a rage, but perfectly acceptable. I’m going to explain why it’s not. I’ve known him over 3 years now. We’ve spent more time apart than we’ve ever been together or ever actively communicating. Because of his pathological lying, his manipulations, his gas lighting, his financial and emotional abuse, and his rages. Of course, according to him, you’d hear an entirely different story. The beauty of perspective, huh?

Anyway, he rages. About sponges not being squeezed out properly, knives not sitting on the counter correctly, meals not being ate together, miscommunication over who cooks a meal, bills not being paid on time(by his past tenants), dogs that chew shoes, dogs that eat poop, kids that don’t listen, supposed man bashing, supposed pitbull bashing, politics, kids not doing as he asks when he asks.

The repetition here is “loss of control”. I get it. That’s why my own anxiety ats up. It’s how our brain works. The thing is, just because I understand part of the why, doesn’t mean I excuse it. Just because your OCD needs for a sponge to be squeezed out juuuust so, does not mean you have the right to get in my face and to declare me wrong  over, and over, and over again.

I asked for my toddler and infant not to be left alone with 2 dogs who have a history of getting in bloody, vicious fights with each other, who’ve attacked other animals, and one who previously bit my son. I was not shaming those dogs. I simply don’t trust them, and for solid reasons. They show strong signs of anxiety. The pauses and scared, side eyes, the snapping when you blow air in one’s face, the startled reflex. No, I wouldn’t trust a tiny dog with those same characteristics with my small children alone. You blew up in a rage unable to identify these as solid points. Immediately I was wrong and you tried verbally to force me into saying I was wrong. You also tried blaming your rage on me. It’s all my fault. You never raged out on your sister over a decade ago for using your toothbrush. You never raged out on your mom in the middle of a mall when security was called on you. You never raged out on your ex and her parents, ultimately being the end cause to that relationship. You never raged out at a court worker almost having a security guard called on you. You never raged out at the simple statement of, “Most men don’t.”(In response to his mom saying she didn’t understand how her mom didn’t go crazy raising 7 kids without her dad helping in the kitchen.).

I’ve heard rage is often the response of much deeper feelings, feelings of sadness, depression, guilt… I understand, because I choose to stay angry at the man who rages against me. Why? Because it’s much easier to be mad at him, than it is to be sad for him, my children, and myself. I’d like to be able to teach my children to walk away when they have such immense emotional triggers they can’t control. Is it not better to hit a pillow than to hit someone else, even if it’s only with words? My ex regressed into that of a 4 year old in one rage. He gets completely belligerent. He literally picked up my 2 year old, as I was trying to leave his house so our babies wouldn’t have to hear him screaming, in attempt to keep me from leaving, so he could continue to yell at me. In that moment, what is the point? To get endorphins running high? Just control? To manipulate the situation to cause someone to retreat or admit defeat? It’s not ok to yell at me to get your point across, and I will not teach my children that that is what we do when we don’t get our way. There are going to be people throughout our entire lives disagreeing with us, and that’s ok. We can only control ourselves. He was so far gone that he was following me around shadowing everything that I said, getting up in my face, attempting to intimidate me. It felt wonderful not letting it put me into anxiety or fear. Fight or flight, and I was ready to fight, but I had/have two children to tend to, and they are my first priority. My children are young. What’s going to happen when he wants them to eat broccoli and they’re chanting ice cream? Will he scream at them until their light leaves and the tears cascade down their faces? Will he smack them like he hit a 1 year old for picking at a button? Will he starve them because they’re overweight, lock them in rooms for destroying a toy, refuse to acknowledge them as people with their own requests when they choose not to agree with him? These are very real fears of mine, because of the history I’ve lived with him.

He has rage.

Ok. Now what???

I acknowledge it. He’s acknowledged anger issues in the past with remarks of, “I’m working on it.”. His family acknowledges it. How do you get one to see it’s about much more than a fear of being ridiculed to seek mental health help? It’s about fixing, cultivating, and creating better relationships, both old and new. It’s about being courageous enough to step up and say, “I need help.”.

That takes immense vulnerability. That takes courage. It doesn’t make one unfit or unhealthy. It means you’re trying to solve the initial reasons rage is happening to begin with. It’s hard. It’s complicated. It’s complex, and you don’t have to do it alone, but you have to take the first step in admitting you need help. Honesty is everything. Whether it be in counseling, medications, anger management, meditation, yoga, exercise, a combination of all, what-have-you.

Rage can be disastrous. It creates chaos. Be a part of the solution. Sometimes, you have to be willing to step outside the comfort of your own box…to not only mend yourself, but to help mend the wounds inflicted onto others during your bouts of rage. I invite you to be courageous.

The Tango

With one arm resting snugly across the hollow on my lower back, and the other firmly gripping my dominant hand, I am seductively velcroed to you. My bosom has to slightly incline to reach its highest peak. Our hips, radiate warmth as they’re kindled together. Our feet are displayed in patterned unison and quite a magnificent art all in themselves.

We are one.

In the dancing community, this is commonly known as “La marca” . There is no leader. There is no follower. There is only the danceThere is the beat. There is the harmony, the melody, the intrinsic qualities that create this beautiful thing called The Tango. There are two partners, but one entity. There are steps. There is fluidity and movement. There is intensity and passion. There are feeble attempts to catch one’s breath to continue on in this dance. There are long pauses that seem to last small eternities. Within one shared glance, you can find all the questions in life and also all the answers. You can find loss and depth. You can find yourself. You can also lose yourself.

Life and relationships are about the dance. There are the nerves leading up to it, and the sadness, relief, and exultation when it’s over. Ohhh but this dance… This dance takes work. It’s not effortless, contrary to many love stories. There are so many behind the scene movements, pages being ripped out, and even new dances being created. It takes immense chemistry and passion. Devotion, dedication, and training. Communication, honesty, and transparency. It’s hard, and it’s worth it. So very fucking worth it.

What happens when one person is giggling and clapping to the Polka and the other is head banging to Nirvana? Well, you’ve got a little bit of chaos going on. What happens when one wants to lead and the other has no interest in following suit? Dissonance. There are stumbles. There are rests needed, and sometimes harshly served with a healthy dose of “man the fuck up”. Sometimes, peacing(piecing???) out is really the only way to go, though, right? Chemistry can only take you so far. Ya need perseverance and to see the same finishing line, or in my case, that damn line needs to be dissolved completely. This is why some tangos are best left for the sidelines. Some are to teach us to be better dancers. Sometimes there is really only one partner involved in the dance, while the other pretends to be hypnotized. The end result is dysfunction and unhappiness.

I need a partner to help me up when I stumble and fall. I need a partner to wipe my tears as I nurture my pain. I need a partner willing to wait while I nurse my sprained ankle, and invest in me in other ways, instead of reaching out for the nearest possible dancing partner. Of course there are other mesmerizing partners that will sizzle with you amidst the dance, but they wont share my zest, my laughter, my light. When my partner steps on my foot, I need him to say sorry. When my partner again steps on my foot, I need for him to say sorry once more, and create a plan of action not to step on my foot anymore. If my partner steps on my foot in the same exact spot for a third round, then we need to reassess the situation and either work together to create new boundaries, new moves, and an altogether better dance, or we need to part ways with the knowledge that we tried and there are better suited partners out there. I’m willing to wipe the sweat from your brow, quench your thirst when you’re parched, and fuel your fire when you’re burning low. I’m willing to be silent so that you may have the limelight, as long as you always travel back to me within the same song. I need for you to lift me up, and never purposely push me down, unless, well, yoooou know. *wink wink* If you maliciously attack me, you will swiftly see the swell of my well rounded rear packaged in gloriously RED, fitted attire. You’ll hear the click-clack of my heels as I saunter away from you. I am great as a solo artist, and I no longer need to be on my knees worshipping a dancer with a malfunction of ego.

I, alone, hold chemistry. I ignite myself. I fan my flames and allow the elements to work together to dim my light when rests are needed. I do this. My relationship with myself has taken dedication, humor, honesty, communication, and transparency. In order for “la marca” to work, you must be vulnerable. It’s a heavy load for one to be both vulnerable and the protector. You’re expected to be the physical force to carry your partner. You must trust the woman to move with you. To become one with you.

You must learn to trust. To trust me. To trust in the dance. To trust in the music, the falls, the disasters, the heartbeat.

Trust in the tango.


The Transfer

Those of you with babies and other small children will know exactly what I’m about to describe: The Transfer.

Alright, so you’ve just boob juiced/rocked/bounced entertained your baby to sleep. That, in and of itself, deserves a medal. Well, maybe an award ribbon. Here, I’ll draw you your very own craptacular prize. Print this out, color it, frame it, shelf it, post it on the fridge, pin it to your child/Pinterest, whatever. Let people know this mundane shit is really what makes us parents.


*pats self on back*

Now comes the hard part, lying said baby down without tripping, falling, stubbing a toe, screaming, “FUUUUUUCK!!!!!” about said toe, or having a 2 year old “assist” in the process. I gotta be real, I fail 6/7 times, and that’s just a mid morning nap attempt.

That damn toddler gets me every time

Without further ado, allow me to paint the wonderfully picturesque attempt of this very morning.

Today, my 2 year’s old’s cousin was over to hang out. So he kept the tot busy most of the morning. I normally choose 1 of 2 situations when I’m attempting to put my 9 month old to sleep. Either I nurse her while cradling her in my lap, or I lay down in bed next to her. You can betcho ass they both come with their own set of difficulties!

If I were to have held her in my arms while nursing her this morning, I would have had the privilege of still being mommy in person to the toddler. I also would have eventually either had a very heavy paper weight, sealed against me by a thin layer of sweat and baby dribble, or I would have had to attempt the dreaded transfer, where I then prayed to the Gods in the heavens above that I didn’t wake the baby with the aforementioned possible(read “probable“) scenarios.

I chose to instead lie in bed next to her, with my door open, to hear the scramblings of my 2 year old. The baby had already almost fallen asleep on me, so I thought, *just possibly* the toddler would stay entertained long enough for me to get her good and asleep. I know, I know, laughable, right? This is why I only get the task accomplished 1 out of every 7 times. Ok, so I set the pillow up on the outside of the baby, making her feel all cozy and shit. The bed is only a few inches off the wall. Getcher panties out of that wad.  ;)  I put another pillow on the side that separates us, because my hope is that while I’m holding my breath and trying to inch away from her, she wont be startled awake in my absence. Alriiiiight, I’ve got this. I can hear Skylar pitter-pattering downstairs. She’s *almost* in a deep slumber, no longer suckling, deep breathing…..aaaaand along comes her brother trampling in. “Dora!!!“, he demands. I told him the TV was on in the living room and to go watch it in there. “Noooo! Doraaa!“. This goes on for another minute or two. He finally goes into the other room to whine and moan about me not rescuing him with his beloved Dora. Then, I hear the freezer open. I hear scrounging around. The freezer door closes. I hear a drawer open and shut. He’s OBVIOUSLY on a mission. THIS is why we’ve put all the flammables, poisons, and sharp objects up high. Anyway, I guessed right. He brought me a frozen gogurt to open for him. I thought I was in the clear, but in the process of getting up, the baby woke, too. I went to the kitchen, opened his yogurt, went back to the bedroom to attempt to put Odie Pie to sleep.

Oriana: Nah, Bruh. It’s play time.

Me: *heavy sigh* Oooooook

Snack time, diaper changes, oreo truffles, clean up, and play time ensue. Then, more nursing and a possible naptime window opens.

Ok, I got her laid down a 2nd time, thought I was in the clear all over again!

Aaand then I heard a toddler walking into the bathroom next to my room mumbling, “Poopoo, poopoo.”. He refused to wait to be changed(Good call, Sky.). She cried. I changed a diaper, felt a little loss, and then found some perspective.

I gave up on attaining the mid morning nap, but found joy in yet another cup of coffee…


and in this.


aaaaand also there was this.

Afternoon naps are easier, right???

1st Date

(This is what has recently been put on my POF profile.)

I’d magically find someone aware of the fact that my time is very, very precious. Someone considerate enough to show up at my door on time, or if running late, willing to be honest about it. It’d be refreshing to see flowers. Not to be confused with a monetary purchase, something that says, “I thought of you when I picked these flowers.”. I’d pack a picnic of foods I prepared with thoughtful consideration. I’d love to be taken to a place in nature that meant something to my date. For example: a hidden waterfall, a special tree or rock or pond or… Ya know, something I’ve never seen, something shared. Possibly, there’d be a bottle of wine or a small flask to share an adult beverage to take the edge off of our nerves, but not enough to be used as a crutch or vice. Maybe a thermos of tea or coffee to go with the meal, depending on the food & time of day. Conversation and hopefully enjoying each other’s company. If not, having the gall to say so. If the chemistry is right, perhaps a sweet kiss, but without expectation(s). A hand to hold. Silence. Being content learning how to be comfortable in the other’s presence.

Ooooorrrrr, do you like to read? We could go into a used book store together, and pick out a book for the other person. Perhaps we could then read short passages aloud to each other at a local park? While eating sandwiches, because sandwiches…

Orrrr we could make gift baggies for those less fortunate than us and distribute them together. I want someone who is unafraid to conquer life with me. And by conquer, I mean someone willing to get the sh*t beat out of them, because this journey we call life is rough. I’m willing to laugh over the cool looking scars if you are…

Let’s Talk ‘Bout Cho Gut !

My daughter is 9 months old. If I were to go into a daycare now, I’m assuming I’d see most of the babies under a year of age eating crappy jarred foods. Although, it sounds like I’m judging, I’m really not. I was a jar, attempted force feeder to my first(she didn’t have the same interest in food that my younger 2 have). I mostly made homemade goodness for my middle tot, but I still started him on solids way too early. When you know better, you do better, ya know??? This is my polite push for you to research and discover gut health, good gut flora, and how it’s interconnected to your entire body. There are so many things you can do to help it flourish and grow.

  • Vaginal birth
  • Breast is best! ;)
  • No foods under 6 months of age.
  • Probiotics
  • Apple cider vinegar
  • Kefirs
  • Kimchi
  • Sour kraut
  • Ferments
  • Cultured products
  • When you get an infection, 1st attempt to take food stressors and triggers out of your diet(dairy, wheat, gluten, sugar, processed foods, booze) rather than take antibiotics. Antibiotics are amazing, but they should absolutely be used last. They kill the infection, but they also kill all the good bacteria in your gut that you NEED to be the best you!!!
  • Add in nature’s natural infection fighters: High quality supplements and vitamins(My go tos are currently MAGNESIUM!!!, Vit D, Vit B Complex, L-lysine, Fish oil), obviously high doses of vit C if you’re trying to kill an infection, or stick to the most natural sources~real foods! I also highly recommend cutting garlic into little chunks, pressing, waiting 10 minutes or so, and then swallowing. Do that as often as possible. Research why. I dare ya. ;)

Ok, now that I’ve given you a few things to research, while you’re at it, please discover the awesome that is baby-led weaning!!! My daughter only has 2 teeth. She mostly eats fresh and raw. I’ve recently introduced a few citrusy foods and noodles into her diet. Still no egg, dairy, or artificial dyes(she had sensitivities early on).

11040931_1636184079990431_7348439348658631115_n 11898526_1636184123323760_8022840641298265772_n

This is one of the easiest, tastiest meals I’ve ever made.


  • Chicken Thighs
  • Spaghetti noodles
  • Arugula/spinach
  • Tomatoes
  • Salt – I’m talkin’ real salt, guys! I’m a pink lover right now.
  • Pepper – Fresh ground, of course!
  • Garlic crack. Aldi’s has an amazing, cheap garlic/sea salt grinder!
  • Fresh basilI
  • Fresh mozzarella
  • Lemon

I threw 3 frozen chicken thighs into the crockpot after breakfast and let them do their thing with nothing else added. The littles’ grandpa had made spaghetti noodles the night before, so I simply reheated those. Around lunch time, the chicken was cooked, so I deboned it, added some of the stash and broth to the noodles, fresh arugula, fresh cubed tomatoes. I WISH I would have had fresh basil, but dry worked. I added a squeeze of lemon, salt, pepper, and garlic crack. Fresh mozz would have MADE this meal, but herb goat cheese on toasted sour dough was a decent replacement.  :)

Hope you enjoy!!!  <3

Ageism Is Real.

If you don’t believe that sentence, you’re straight up lyyyyying to yourself.

Even if you’re anti-kid, you’ve been around at least ONE baby or small child that’s made your face physically ache from all the laughing you’ve done, right??? If not, I dunno that you’ve truly lived, and I’m not sure we can be friends…

I’ll rethink that statement if you’re willing to laugh at my kids with me.  ;)

Let’s get started, shall we?!

Things babies/small children do that are socially acceptable and even possibly downright cute, that would get most adults the side eye, avoided, thought to be mentally ill, or arrested.

  • They are content(and socially accepted)all day long in only a diaper, underwear, or onesie. Ok, so I just googled the shit out of diapered men, and it just repulsed me. I should probably examine why, but no thanks. I’ll just post a cute diaper clad baby instead…

11738020_1621045204837652_5769056107412899346_n“Like, oh my Gawd, Mom. This shit right here. *insert Homer Simpson gurgle and drool*

Noooow picture a grown up sitting there doing the same… Drugs, right? Or booze. Lots and lots of booze.

  • While she’s up there looking all cute and innocent, let’s discuss my next point. When baby’s are learning to eat, they often throw food and beverages on the floor…and laugh. Thankfully, my chubs is mostly too into eating the food(all the food, and fuzz, and dirt particles, and …) right now to be interested in seeing if Gravity is still hangin’ out to play. Oh! And my 2 year old still mostly uses his fingers to eat everything…cereal…soup…ice cream. Fingers. Ok, now imagine us(you and I) having a public lunch date. Italian sound good? No? How about Chinese buffet? Oh God, that sounds so fuggin’ good right about now. K, I’ve now got my wonton soup, and my gloriously filled plate filled with fried rice, an egg roll, crab rangoon, broccoli in some kinda magical sauce, and sweet and sour chicken of course, served with sweet and sour sauce. Oops, looky here, I’ve spilled my water. All over me…and the floor..and I think a piece of ice may have even made it into our neighbor’s shoe. I’m now screaming at you to take my shirt off. “OFF! OFF!!!”, I cry. You cringe, yet oblige. So now I’m sitting in my booster, clad in only my bra and bib. I’m chowing down! I told you I was hungry! I think I may have managed to get some of the rice into my mouth. That crab rangoon was my favorite. You can tell my the way I smeared it all over my face and hair. And although I really, really, really enjoy the process of dipping, not necessarily the eating, just the dipping, the smooth, artificial coloring and texture of the sweet and sour sauce is just too damn enticing! I start painting and squealing in delight, “I PAINT! I PAINT!!!”. The broccoli is just taking up too much space on my plate so I dispose of it onto the floor. I realize that’s kinda fun, so I giggle and do it again. You tell me sternly not to do it again. So, I look at you, evaluate the situation, and throw my wonton soup on the floor instead. You’re horrified, and you decide to never bring me into public ever again. You’re welcome.
  • We don’t get to ride in shopping carts.  :(


  • Skip. 2 year old galloping? A-fucking-dorable. 6 year old skipping and singing? Still pretty damn cute. A 35 year old, tutu’d, bearded man, skipping and singing the same nursery rhyme? Weird…
  • I’m potty training my toddler. He’s doing super awesome. I may or may not be bribing him with mini marshmallows. AKA “manoof!”. He hasn’t quite got the hang of going poop in the potty yet. He’d rather go hide to do it. Let’s say, we’re watching TV in the living room together, and I get up to walk behind the couch. I start the push face. I exert myself a few times, and then you really start to smell something. The look of disgust is pretty present on your face. “Miranda, you might want to go change your pants…”, you say. “NO!!!!”, I declare as I go running through the house away from you and no where near the bathroom.
  • I can’t turn in a billion circles really, really fast to get insanely dizzy, laugh, and fall down. At least not in public… But my toddler can!
  • I’m going to throw whining and tantrums into one subject. This is not so cute, normally short, but really, really fucking intense. “Popsicle!”, I say with a smile of expectation on my face. “No, not right now.”, I hear. “Popsicle!!!”, I try with a little bit more enthusiasm, and an even more radiant smile. I head to the freezer as I’m abruptly cut off and told that I can have one later. “POPSICLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”, I wail, as I fling myself onto the floor, crying and yelling and withering around like a beached whale(whatever that looks like…). That goes on for another very long minute until you invite me to look at the squirrels out the window. Problem solved.
  • I can’t fart and scream, “TOOOOOOT!!!” and laugh hysterically.
  • So we’re walking through Walmart when I decide to start singing my ABC’s, and by sing, I really mean yell as loud as my vocal cords will carry me. You try hushing me, but I just KNOW that the shoppers here today are my audience and they NEED to see/hear me perform. You’ll thank me later.
  • I’m not allowed to run around nekkid outside.
  • I’m not allowed to talk about pezises all day long. You have a pezis. I (don’t) have a pezis. Grandpa has a pezis. Everyone has a pezis.
  • I’m also not allowed to put trains or pretzels or phones or BATTERY POWERED BUBBLE MACHINES on my pezis, although I try.
  • I’m not allowed to pull my pezis out and leave it hanging out over the side of my diaper to catch air. Cuz ya know, it just looks cool, trust me, I’m examining  all the angles. (To be clear, my tot is always told that he’s welcome to touch his pezis all he wants in private, but it’s not welcome at the dinner table/living room couch/porch outside, etc)
  • My youngest thinks it’s the most fun thing in the world to head butt(think bam! to the collar bone as she’s chilling on my lap) and throw herself back for her own entertainment(normally on my bed, but not always). I’m not sure if it’s the thrill, “Oooh, I wonder if Mommy’s gonna catch me THIS time!!!!” or if it’s really just fun. She does this often though, so it’s gotta have some kinda pull to it. Imagine me sitting with you in the living room, enjoying some nice one-on-one time, when you see this sudden look of mischievous amusement cross my face. Without warning(other than that expression), I throw myself back full force!!! Oh maaan!!!! What a rush!!!!! You had to practically dive, hitting your own head on the coffee table in the process, in order to sacrifice me giving myself a concussion. Thanks!!!! :) That was fun. Let’s do it again!

Ageism is real.

Put On Your Fuckin’ Party Hats

…cuz we’ve got a lovely life to celebrate.  :)

I’ve got a bunch of emotions rollin’ around in me right now. I normally do on this day. I called my brother earlier, left him a voicemail. I told him he was handsome. Who does that? Who randomly tries not to cry while admitting her love and devotion to her little-big brother? This girl. I don’t remember the last time I got to actually talk to him. It’s been 2 years since I’ve seen him. It makes me sad, sometimes. I miss him… If you see that guy, tell him to call his sister!

Facebook tells me what I did this day last year. I was 6 months pregnant and caring for my 93 year old grandmother who’d broken her hip in a fall. I couldn’t get any doctor to understand the severity of the situation. They kept telling me she was “fine”, because they missed reading the fracture. She was completely bed ridden. She also had rapidly declining dementia. It was undocumented. I lived 6ish hours from her. I saw her in April when she had a mini stroke, and she appeared to be fine. Noone knew how bad her memory had gotten. It was really sad for me to discover her overdosing herself and under medicating herself. She’d wake up really disoriented in the middle of the night. It was all so very confusing and difficult for her to understand. She admitted she felt like she was going crazy. She felt like a burden on me. Thankfully, she mostly only has short term memory loss. So, basically we had the same few conversations on repeat all day long. I was also caring for a toddler in a non toddler proofed home. This was immediately after my ex had financially abused me and stopped paying child support. I was lost, and confused, and about to have a baby, and had to let my big girl live with her dad, just so much fucking transition.

Oh, and it was my mom’s birthday…

So, that was last year.

I’m in a really good spot in comparison… It’s all about perspective, right?

Today, is my mom’s birthday. Well…today would have been her birthday. I’m not so good at math, so it took me a small eternity to figure out that she would have been 59 today. Ya know, had she lived.

59… God, I can’t even imagine. Part of me tries really hard to visualize that. The greying hair. The wrinkles. The little, old, tall lady set in her ways. And part of me tries so very hard not to. Because with the extra 11 years. Fuck. 11 years, guys. I’ve been without my mommy for 11 fucking years. I was just a baby at 19. I don’t even think my boobs were done growing yet. We had just started our adult relationship. I was just starting to learn to trust her again(you know, from childhood dramas). She was gloriously human. Amazingly, angelically, poignantly, human. So to get back to the point I was trying to make, with 11 years added onto an ailing, lupus ridden body, she probably would have been in a lot more pain than I even remember her being in back then. I don’t want to think about that.

I wasn’t lying when I said I have a bunch of emotions going on. Not only emotions, but sometimes my mind goes into overdrive, and I just start playing out these scenes and possibilities and pretend conversations that would have taken place had she lived. Sometimes it sucks to be so creatively inclined…

Like, more than once today, I imagined her scooping Skylar up to love and sing and play and dote on him. I teared up while cuddling with him, seeing this make believe scene play out. And then I cried even more because I know he’ll never get that opportunity. I realize he’ll never feel that loss. But he’ll never know the joy of having a Grandma Nancy, and that brings me sorrow.

I pretend she saved me from getting together with assholes. And I pretend she wasn’t dating a pedefilic asshole when she died. I don’t make those claims lightly. He tried to fucking hit on me at my mother’s funeral, and I later found out his TWO previous marriages failed, because he’s perverse. And I pretend that I didn’t learn those loose boundaries and self worth standards from her. But it’s not like she intentionally taught me those things. It’s a cycle. I get that. And different things manifest in different people. And we all look at the world from a different view, a different lens, a different perspective. It’s all about that damn perspective, and goddamn if I don’t want to just be able to talk to her about perspectives! She saw the good in every one. That’s what she chose to see. It’s what kept her sane. It’s what kept OTHERS sane. Her light was so fucking bright, it blinded the dark in others. I remember my dad talking to me about stuff like that when I was way too damn young to understand. When she didn’t have a dollar to her name, she’d scrounge for change in order to send me off into my own entitled teenage world with whatever it was that I was wanting…probably candy or a soda at lunch.

I miss cuddling with her. I miss talking to her on the phone. I miss her self righteous, always right attitude. I miss the gift of hating that same attitude. I miss the boisterous laugh I was always so embarrassed to hear. I now own that same cackle. I used to be embarrassed of my own, unadulterated laugh, but now, at 30, I finally fucking own it. It’s me. It’s her. It’s real, and it’s beautiful. We’re loud… We’re quiet. We’re intense, and we’re passive. She was such a humble goddess. She could bring chills to anyone with her gift of song. She was such a fucking diva. She rocked any stage. Bella gets that from her. I sure as fuck don’t. I have the gifts, but I also have the anxiety, and I’ve learned finally, I can’t just wish it away. Anxiety doesn’t work that way.

I wish she were here to argue mundane stuff like me cussing, or me choosing not to spank, or me using woowoo medicine before pharmaceuticals. God, I would have taught her so much(and vise versa of course)! And she would have been defensive, because it would have challenged her prior ways of thinking and doing. She also would be so, so, so, so proud. Because I learn, and I admit fault, and I challenge myself and others to destroy the fucking box. I live in my authenticity. And I value others for theirs. And she’d see and know that with all of her being. She’d see my gullibility and love me because of it, and not make fun of me for it. She’d be so proud of me. Not the fake, “Oh your mother would be so proud.” kind of comment I get in passing, cuz really, looking from the outside in, just, no. But she’d see that I grew up on canned and processed foods and how now I eat mostly real, homemade foods. I have my 1st garden ever! She’d get me. She raised me. I’m a part of her. She’d be fucking proud…and still hate my love of the word fuck, and my weird hippie ways. And we’d both be ok with that. She’d be a right wing conservative, and I’d be a liberal anarchist, and we’d find middle ground. We’d fight and argue and not talk and then we’d make amends, because we valued each other. I still value her. I even giggle at the imagined disdain she’d wear for my love of tattoos. I can see the disgust and misunderstandings she’d have about them, but I also imagine them growing on her. Maybe that’s just because I now have her permanently, symbolically tattooed onto me. I’m rocking the canvas she co-created. <3

She’d be such a radiant grandmother. I.miss.her. She’d be that quirky woman with self confidence who quietly still battles self image issues, who wears outfits that are a bit outdated, who keeps a birds nest in her hair, because it takes too much energy out of her to brush through her long, thick locks. I’d massage her cracking, dry hands and feet. I’d pray her scoliosis would stop causing her pain. I’d pray her arthritis would disappear. I’d pray all of these things for her. And she’d pray for me. And we’d pray together. And together we’d be made more whole.

I’m left with all of these what ifs, and I’m left with all of these memories. I’m left with a lot of goodness and a lot of sadness. I want to be able to yell at her for some of the decisions she made, and I want to hug her for others.

I can’t do any of that.

So, I pretend. And, I wonder, and I believe what it is that I believe when it comes to the afterlife. I don’t know what the fuck it is that I believe, so I continue to talk to her and ask her for guidance and help. It may be crazy. It may be insane, but it’s what gets me through both the good days and the tough days. I realize it’s a coping skill, but it’s one I’m comfortable with.

Tonight, I sang Happy Birthday with Skylar with one lone pink candle on a slice of german chocolate cake. He was pretty into it. The singing, the anticipation of devouring the sugary goodness, the process of extinguishing the fire, yeah, all pretty perfect for a 2 year old. I started this tradition last year. We got cupcakes. I made an asian fusion meal the other night and texted my brother, “For as much as mom loved Chinese food, she never cooked it, did she???”. Chinese was her favorite. When I introduced “in bed” to end her fortune cookie’s phrase, she laughed and laughed and laughed. That’s one of the last memories I have with her. Someday, I’ll be in a position to take my loved ones out for Chinese in honor of the amazing woman they’ll only get to hear about in stories. So until then, I’ll just tend to my memories, and wallow with them for a bit.

Happy birthday, sweet Nancy Sue(I never called her that. She was always just Mom or Mommy.). I love you.



So, my 1st (and probably last) nursing shoot was scheduled for the other day. Got canceled due to the rain. It was rescheduled for tomorrow morning. My son went home with his aunt and cousins this afternoon (2nd non mommy sleepover ever) with the promise of him arriving first thing in the morning. And then I got this…  :/  11924906_1634922463449926_1070271954756076488_n Hahahaha My first impulse was to laugh, cuz he’s just so fuggin’ cute! And then, I thought, “Wait, is that permanent?!”. Next was, “He’s holding toothpaste. Did he eat toothpaste?!(cuz he’s 2…)”. I’m not sure if his aunt got it off of him or not. I guess it’s good I was going to go with a hippie-esk look, tie-dye and a straw hat for him.  ;)

How Not To Be A Fucking Idiot: A Guide To Online Dating

Hi, I’m Miranda. I’m a young(ish), single mother, doing the young, single mother type stuff. That basically consists of having little to no free time, which is why I’m on a dating site to begin with, cuz “Aint nobody got time fo dat!”. Dat being the whole meet and greet thing. Especially if you’re me, a SAHM and new to town. I realize I have baggage, but I don’t feel it’s unpackable… That junk may even be complimentary to someone else’s. It’s what I’m hoping for anyway. I am a total romance junkie. I am also quite literate, creative, and attractive. I convey all of this on my dating profile(s). I express what I am looking for(a friend and possible future partner). I also share what I’m not looking for(a booty call, hook-up, one night stand). People, and to be incredibly sexist here, men, men have been fucking rude, inconsiderate, and just all around entitled assholes.


1) Please be literate. On the contrary, I am NOT some nit picky bitch, but dis just aint gon work fo me as an initial request of my precious time.


2) I am ALL FOR sexual freedom. I am ALL FOR anyone who wants to engage in consensual, age appropriate shenanigans. My profile starts out stating I want butterflies in my belly that imitate teenage love. That doesn’t equate a hook-up. Just, stop.


3) Do you see our rating?! “Your” an idiot.


4) My friends and I determined you’re wearing a bathrobe. What??? You need some more practice with your “come hither” look. You’re an idiot.


5) Yes, admit to non consensual groping. What’s next? Date rape? That’s cool, Bruh. No, really, it’s not. You’re what’s wrong with humanity. You are an idiot.


6) Just, no. And if I were, I sure as hell wouldn’t tell you…


7) Don’t copy and paste the same thing to a plethora of women. Women(people) want to feel wanted, want to feel sought after, explored. We(ok I) don’t want to be sold a product.


8) Stay classy.


9) Dearest Brody, I could care less(well actually, I could possibly care a great deal) if you’re a young lesbian, confused, or a transgender man. But 26?! I want, deserve, and only allow honesty. Whatever this is, is not honest… (the only other picture was of a young boy on a dirtbike)


10) He doesn’t mean to offend, so it makes it alright. Men, no. Just no. Make it palatable. If you have these compulsions in your head, let this blog come to mind, and remind yourself that you don’t want to be a fucking idiot. Keep your stupidity from coming to fruition.

***If you just can’t help yourself, you should genuinely seek out some form of psychiatric help.