Thoughts on Moving


February 24, 2014


I have thoughts on moving. thoughts that start small, like running my fingers along the banister, and dreaming of a home without stairs, then they run into bigger thoughts, like a yard with a big tree, with a fence and a place where my dog can linger in the sun all day.

I have thoughts on moving, on picking up and going. On leaving this house behind, not unlike a snail finding a new shell or a bird leaving its nest. Because we want more space and because we’re ready to leave.

But the more I prep our nest to leave, the more I find my feet getting stuck, in the memories and sounds, and stories that the walls hold tight with their framed recollections and chipped corners.

But we convinced ourselves that now is the time, before our children get too big, and our roots grow too deep, that we should leave, and head out in search of more, and a place to run, and for our roots to dive deep into rich soil.

So a realtor hammered a sign into our front lawn, and we took a swig of fear, and drank it in. Because now we sell our house.

We are stepping off into something that is uncomfortable. And there are so many unknowns and so much anxiety but some how I know

that we’ll be just fine.



I just read your article “New life is life-changing” in the OC Register. Thank you for sharing your gift. I have written and deleted about 10 sentences so I am going to leave it at this. Thank you for bringing me profound beauty with your writing this morning.


by Andrea White on April 1, 2014

This is really beautiful

by melinda on April 29, 2014

Oh my gahhhhhhh where did you go?!

by Bethany Reed on June 27, 2014

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Post-Vacation Haze


December 3, 2013

Trees growing upwards remind us of our strength.

We huddle into a hug, we form a circle of warmth, arms reaching into arms like the trees, tangled branches moving into tangled branches.

Our smiles echo joy, our tears give us courage, we drink in their saltiness as their drops hit our lips. They make us human, they remind us that we are vulnerable. Soft inside. Tissue and blood, and ribbons of love and sadness.

We press. We forge. We grow.

A year folds into another year.

We reflect. We redefine. We memorialize.

With the sea at our left, the highway at our front, and the air at our fingertips, we are given perspective. The untraveled road before us creates curiosity, we feel alive.

Hands twisting into the sky, fingers intertwining with the movements of the fast air as it whips our hair and moves our thoughts into bigger thoughts.

We are in a new world. Fresh future presses hard against our skin.

The familiar landscape miles behind us hold our trivial thoughts captive.

YOU CAN HAVE THEM, we yell though open windows, our words bouncing off the coast, and falling deep into the sand.




















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You can have them, we whisper again into the shore.


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My Anti-Sleep Situation

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November 7, 2013

Waking up is hard work, especially when you don’t really do much sleeping during the night.

Allow me to vent, and then…sip…coffee. Lots and lots of coffee. Cheers! Do you cheers with coffee? Well if you do, careful not to spill, it’s hot.

Back to my anti-sleep situation: My night was interrupted at 11:00 p.m., 12:58 a.m., 2:14 a.m., 4:35 a.m., 5:00 a.m., and 6:43 a.m. Why? Because everyone sucks, that’s why. Here’s the problem in ascending order: Hudson has croup, Silas is growing molar or something, and Berlyn drank too much bedside water.

Hudson is a wreck, and deeply affected by the “man cold.” It’s kind of serious too. He produces this barking sound that feels like someone is scratching your inner ear with a tiny piece of tin foil wrapped around a toothpick every time he coughs, and after a fit of coughs, you’re a little sweaty because you’ve buried your head deep in a pile of couch pillows, and then you exclaim, “HUDSON! ARE YOU OKAY?”

And he hardly looks up from his iPad, and replies in the cutest raspy voice ever, “I’m a little good and a little bad.”

So Hudson’s super sick, but we’re handling it, and I think he’s starting to feel a tiny bit better, but last night he coughed so much that he threw up, that was the first 11:00 pm wake up for me. And it was the worst timing because I just went to bed, and I was all warm and cozy, then I heard crying, so I shot up and went to check on him. He was asleep by the time I got to his room, so instead of waking him up to change his sheets, I accessed the vomit, and realized it was mostly comprised of freshly swallowed apple juice mixed with water. I put a heavy blanket over the violation, and rolled him over, and then I washed my hands and went back to bed. DONE.

Next at 12:58, I heard Silas violently screaming. I got out of my bed again and went into his room, he was crying, “MA-MA-MA-MA!” He usually gets 9-11 hours of uninterrupted sleep at night, so this was a little out of the ordinary, instead of ignoring him, I nursed him, because I wanted him to sleep so that I can sleep. After that I peed, then went back to bed.

Okay, I thought. I finally I get to sleep. Good niiiighhttt….NOPE. 2:14 am, I hear Hudson again. Which is fine, because he’s so sick and I was worried about him anyway. I went into his room, which felt like a cold dark swamp because the humidifier was powered up to full-blast-Louisiana setting, and he threw up again. Thankfully he ate a total of nothing the day before, so it was just a bunch of stomach fluid and apple juice which surprising, isn’t that gross to clean up. It’s like baby urine or puppy drool: Cute and precious. So I had to change his sheets at 2 AM, and that’s super fun, and also I’m highly coordinated and have absolutely no problems with fitted sheets in the middle of the night. Except that’s a big fat lie, and Hudson heard his mommy say words he never knew existed.

So I cleaned him all up, and washed his sheets, then I peed again, and went back to bed.


So then 4:35 happens, and this time it’s my 6-year-old, Berlyn who hasn’t woken up in the middle of the night since she was 3 months old. Really. That’s a true story. And there she was standing next to me while I was sleeping and she was quietly sobbing, “I peed in my bed.”

That girl has NEVER wet the bed. EVER. Never. Not ever. And last night out of all the nights in the world, she wets the bed. I went into her room to check it out, and the sheets weren’t even wet. Alright fine, there was a small quarter sized amount of pee, and she wouldn’t let me do the lazy-mom-towel-over-the-pee/vomit/what-have-you-trick (that I did just a few hours earlier with Hudson) she said it was gross. I shrugged my shoulders and began to rip the sheets off her bed and changed her bedding.

Anyone else need new sheets in the middle of the night?

Silas? Zoey? I’m getting good at this…

Twenty minutes later, I get back to bed, and try to sleep. But then Pat’s alarm goes off at 5:00 am and whhhaaaa! I want to cry. But I don’t, instead I ignore it, and soon I’m fast asleep again until 6:43 when I hear crying… again! I open my eyes, and see Hudson standing in front of me, naked, cry/coughing. He tells me, “I’m freezing!”

“Well, ya, you’re naked.” I feel his head. “And you have a fever. Let’s get some clothes on.”

There you go, that was my night last night. So If you see me, and I look like crap, please don’t judge me. I am wearing a bra and deodorant, and that’s the most that I am capable of today. And if I have a conversation with you and I’m not making any sense, humor me and smile. And then offer to take my children for 45 minutes so I can take a nap, please?

Thank you.

1 Comment:

Hey Becky, just flipped over Tge ten years of marriage essay!!! Fantastic imagery! Yipee Donna Friess Tge Unraveking of Shelby Forrest.

by Donna on April 25, 2015

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Welcome to One, Silas.


November 4, 2013

This week, November 10th to be exact, Silas turns one.

His turning one has haunted me all year. Memories that I’ve fought hard to erase will billow back in like a curtain in an open window. It’s fabric being sucked in and pulled out over and over again. Memories washing over me like scenes from an old movie. The action cuts into my thoughts, replaying dramatic moments.

Rewind, play. Rewind, play.

silas brumfield

Silas is one.

His heart is one, his hands are one. His voice and his soul and his brain are all one. I want to celebrate his life, but at the same time, his birthday is a reminder of his staggering birth story.

The blood, the panic, the fear, the trust, the sting of hearing his heart whoosh slowly over the ultrasound. The blackness, the dark, the sleep.

And then the awaking. A soft tap on my shoulder telling me it’s not over. My eyes opened, and I realized there was a birth, a life, a light, the most precious gift. He was inside a box filled with tissue and those foam peanuts. It was all in there to protect him and it was worth it. The newness, the tender sounds, the wires the beeps and fluids, the cautionary words from doctors, the nurses who held him, the tubes who fed him.

It was all worth it.







Today I celebrate Silas’ life. Not the fear surrounding his birth, but the story of hope, the story of grace, the story of God and his sweet goodness to us.












Welcome to one, Silas.

You are a fighter. You are so strong. May this strength carry you through your life, giving you pause when you need to stop, and flight when you need to fly.


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Mental Health Day


October 29, 2013

I’m taking a mental health day today. I’m going to stay in these unflattering fushia plaid flannel pants and drink Stumptown coffee from this Stumptown mug with a bison on it for as long as I possibly can. Or is it a buffalo? Is there a difference? If I lived in Montana, I’d know the difference. But if I lived in Montana I’d probably be fly fishing right now on some placid lake, and instead of these obnoxious pajama pants, I’d be wearing thigh-high rubber boots, and wouldn’t need a mental health day to begin with. But maybe I could still wear the pajama pants under the boots? They are incredibly comfortable.

But why is my mental health in question? Because my husband was in New York last week and left me here, alone with three kids, and Silas had a developmental assessment and I had an essay due for a magazine and all of it was extremely stressful, and now I need to cool off a bit, which is best done by dipping into this halloween candy that my mom bought us from Costco, because she wanted to make sure we had something to hand out to the neighborhood children, and apparently I can’t buy my own candy. But it’s fine because she went ahead and bought two huge boxes of standard sized candy bars. That’s right. Come to my house and get full sized bags of peanut M&Ms. Because that’s all that’s left. I’ve eaten all the Snickers and Twix. Sorry. Plus, who likes peanut M&Ms anyways?

So lemme, back up a bit, and talk about Silas, my youngest of babes. Who is not quite 12 months, well, to be exact, he’s 11.5 months, and somehow that is important information, which I’ll get to it in a minute. Because of Silas’ stay in the NICU when he was born and the severity of his birth, we had to have a follow up visit at the occupational therapist office, to access his development. He did one right before he turned 6 months, and just the other day he had his second one. During the appointment the therapist hands him all these toys and puzzles and he has to figure them out, bang them together, find the hidden piece, solve for X, you know, the yoouje. Usus? Usual.


At his 6 month evaluation, they said he was “normal” but wanted to have him re-checked to send me into an anxiety spiral, and question my own mental assessments. And so they found out, Silas is in fact “normal” and since he’s had two “normal” evaluations, he is free to live his life “normally” and does not need to see an occupational therapist anymore.

Here’s how he did on his test. oh and remember he is 11.5 months, see? I told you it would be important later.

Cognitive index: 13 months

Language: receptive index: 13 months

Language: expressive index: 12 months

Fine motor: 12 months

Gross motor: 11.5 months

Zing! Hi five Silas for not only being alive, but also acing your assessment.

So then a doctor comes in to chat about Silas and marvel over how fantastic he is, and wouldn’t you know, it’s the same doctor that was actually in his delivery. She saw the surgery! My eyes widened and I barked, “TELL ME EVERYTHING!” But not everything because, even though it’s been a year, I’m still incredibly sensitive about the whole thing. So here’s what she tells me:

During a routine and normal C-scction, there are two incisions made, one is to cut the skin and muscles, and the second is to cut the uterus. But during my delivery, the doctor made the first incision into my body, and PLOP! There was Silas’ head. Free floating in my body, no longer in my uterus.

***And now all the blood is rushing from my head as I write this and I think I’ll pass out for a minute.

OKAY, I’m back.

Again, I’ve said it before and I’ll continue to say it forever, Silas is a miracle.



And that’s all I’m going to say about that, because it makes me feel weird, and sad, and uncontrollable, and grateful, and dizzy all at the same time.

Let’s see what else is going on…Oh, I was asked to write a Christmas article again for OC Register Family magazine, I wrote the cover article last  year, and apparently more than 3 people liked it, so I got another go at it. This time it’s not the cover, but that’s fine, because it took some of the pressure off, and allowed me to write something a bit more serious, and thoughtful, and kinda sad, because what’s Christmas if we all can’t be a little sad? So look for it in the December issue of OC Register Family. I’ll remind you when it comes out, because I tend to get excited when someone publishes my words.

And all this happened while my husband was on the East Coast for a week, under the guise of a “business trip” with his bestie staying at the Ace Hotel and hanging out with hipsters, and consorting in Brooklyn with cool bearded chocolate makers. That’s fine. That’s cool. But it was cool, because I managed. Sure most of the time the children were underfed, no one changed their underwear, we watched waaay too much Barney, and the house could have been considered a sanitation hazard, but we all survived.

High-fives all around.

Plus, my husband brought me back gifts, as to soften the blow and by golly, it worked.



I think that you both are miracles! The chances were against either of you surviving such a traumatic event so you are also part of that miracle!

And as for mental health days…we all could use a few more of those than we take so enjoy it! Hugs!

by Lisa Justice on October 29, 2013

I had wondered it often and WOW. Just wow. High fiving a million angels for you both right now. Way to be warriors.

by Yellaphant on October 29, 2013

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When Doves Try

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October 21, 2013

I had a small celebration, a party if you will, a gathering of plastic gold cups and friends, of hugs, and silvery laughter that refueled us, made us feel heard and understood.

And also there were photos that made us feel silly and cloudy. Lofted and fizzy.

I’m obsessed with the self-timer app and because when I’m with people I love, I have to capture it, like it’s a beautiful bird and I’m a running 4-year old with scraped knees and a giant net.


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And the crazy thing is, I wish I took more photos.

I was like, “this is it?!”

Well, there’s always next time.

1 Comment:

You and your husband are waaayy too cute. the. end.

by gorillabuns on October 21, 2013

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Pause. Repeat.


October 15, 2013

In elementary school I was going through hard stuff for a 6-year old. My parents divorced, and remarried in a span of a year. I was the baby, I was expected to move through the motions without protest. I was expected to be okay with new sisters and brothers, a new dog, a new mom, new dad, two Christmases, and two bedrooms. Our new life looked like my brother and I buckling in the car on Friday and living out of a duffle bag until Sunday.

I remember in first grade they told me I would have to be held back. It was May. The weather was warm and bright. I was uncomfortable with the news. It sent a hot vibration through my body, telling me I was inadequate. I was small, unthriving, incompatible, unfit for moving on. My friends would all go on into the 2nd grade, and I would stay back, reviewing the same concepts, coloring in the lines again, rereading the same words.

I would later learn that it was because my brother had to be held back too, and since we were only a year apart, they didn’t want us to be in the same grade. So forms were signed, hands were shaken, and just like, that I would repeat the 1st grade.

A few weeks later I had an outburst. The teacher told me to stand outside the classroom. I unapologetically declined. Standing in the hallway was for bad kids, I wasn’t a bad kid. So, no thank you Mrs. Jackson. I would stay right here, at my desk with my Trapper Keeper filled with yellow construction paper.

I remember she stood over me, looming and tall, requesting me to go outside. This time her voice was filled with strength and laced with a firmness that was never before used on me. She grabbed my arm and escorted me out. I protested. I was hard and loud. Everyone could hear. Boys and girls looked up, they stopped cutting their yellow construction paper to watch me, the girl who would repeat the 1st grade, get in trouble.

I screamed as her hand squeezed my frail arm, I kicked and grabbed the door frame, holding it tight, holding on for control, for my dignity. I yelled at her, “I HAVE ASTHMA!”

Now I laugh, but  I remember very clearly that it was the excuse that I offered. Obviously, I didn’t fully understand what asthma meant. I just knew that I spent a week in the hospital because of it.  Somehow that made me special, like my behavior could be excused, or at the very least understood.

When I went to the hospital because of an attack, I lived in a clear tent where the air was perfect and new. It was pumped in just for me, it was my air. Clean and unpolluted with smoke that was always embedded in my clothes from my parent’s cigarette habit. The heavy smoke lived in my drawers and on my sheets, on the walls of our house, on the fur of the cat. But this air, it was different, it was perfect and it was just for me.

I had to wear an ID bracelet. It was stainless steal and had a cat and a dog etched on the front of it. It had the letters ASTHMA right under my name. It was a label that I didn’t understand, but I wore it, the label, the bracelet, I wore it. The extra links of the bracelet would drag on my desk when I reached for my pencil. The soft clatter; it was the sound of special. I was special because I had been sick, because I had it hard, because growing up wasn’t easy for me. I had to live in an oxygen tent, I had to wait until after 5:00 to have my mom pick me up from the babysitter’s, I had to share a bunk bed with my brother, share my cereal with step-sisters, and repeat the 1st grade.

I wore that bracelet as if it was my badge.

I got sent to the principal’s office after that outburst. I remember sitting in front of the large wooden desk. I could barely see over the stacks of paper, but I remember the principal, she wore a blue wool suit and had short brown hair. I remember she smiled a lot, she showed her teeth. I thought she was supposed to reprimand me. But instead she was soft and gentle. I told her I had asthma. She nodded, and smiled, because she understood.

I never got in trouble after that. I went on the repeat the 1st grade with a different teacher, Mrs. May. She was kind and she never made me stand out in the hallway. Repeating the first grade was about stopping, and freezing time, and doing it over again. I was able to heal and get use to these heavy things that were a part of my life: splitting my time with my parents, my broken lungs, cereal sharing, and watching my friends go into second grade.


Pause and repeat.



I never knew so much happened in such a short time! Big heavy things for a little 6 year old. You’re amazing Beckey.

by melinda on October 19, 2013

Love this.

by Mallie on October 21, 2013

powerful. Thanks for sharing!

by Jessica on October 21, 2013

This is lovely and sad and just…great writing.

Unrelated side note: I’ve been following you for a while and probably never commented before but I named my new baby Silas when he was born (very early) in May. We didn’t have a name chosen yet but he needed one and now that I have gotten back to blog reading I am 99% sure your blog (and your boy) are where the inspiration came from. It just kind of came to me in the hospital and people ask me why we chose it and I was never sure why it popped into my head. So thank you. I love him and his name very much. 🙂

by cynthia on October 25, 2013

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Half Crow


October 11, 2013

I think my body is physically rejecting the aging process. I’m older now and my shoulder is creaking and sore, and my brain hurts. But it could be because I took a new hot yoga class last night and barely survived it. The people in the class were like yogi level: ninja, and were all like FWIING, SCHWING, SHHOOPing silently into full expression poses, while I was barely teetering in half crow. But in my defense, the teacher was wearing those leggings that look muscles, and I keep snickering to myself because I could see her butt. I looked around, but no one seemed to be joining in with me, they were all busy dripping sweat in the plow position.

Fine. But really?! Really!? Come on!


If you were in the class with me, you would get the giggles too.

My birthday was great. The day was stellar, I did nice things, people around me made me feel loved and appreciated, and my kids exclaimed, happy birthday! to me no less than 29 times. But that day I had a migraine. I get these debilitating headaches a few times a month, I think they set out to remind me to chill the frick out every once in a while, because I am a little stressed most of the time. So I spent most of my day counting the hours until I could pop some more pain medicine and trying to keep my migraine at a functioning level. When it tips over towards an unfunctional level, all I can do is lay in my bed with the shades drawn and order my six-year-old to watch the baby while I pull my legs into my chest and weep. And there would be no weeping on my birthday. Instead there would be beignets and salmon lox for breakfast, and mid-day shopping, a relaxing bath with tea and a visually astounding magazine, and dinner with my favorite human being in the world.





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Okay, so we’re a little crazy with the self-time app on my phone. Put a beer in my belly, and everything becomes picture worthy. But in our defense, we were at the OC Mart Mix, which is this giant warehouse with little boutique shops, and it was empty. There were white walls and spot lights, and well, it just begged for us to be silly.


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October 7, 2013

It’s that time of year again. The beginning of October where burgeoning thoughts about life swirl restlessly in my head. Because it’s my birthday. I’m thirty-three tomorrow.


I like it written out like that: thirty-three. Hyphenated and thoughtful. I put that number on my tongue and start to chew on it. I bite down hard, it’s ridged and spiny. It’s salty and it’s sweet. It tastes like a lot, like a mouthful. Like if I tried to speak with it in there I would embarrass myself.

Drool and cough, sputter and mumble.

The number three has always had this unmistakable power in our house. If Pat and I were to close our eyes and pick a number one through ten, we’d probably choose three. Our address is 3, it costs three dollars for a designer donut, it’s the amount of beers that make me completely drunk, we have made three amazing children, there are three persons in the Trinity. Three feels good, whole, complete, right.

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I think I will like thirty-three. It might be a lot, it might be salty, but it’s mine, and I’m owning it. There is much to be grateful in my life. My providing husband who is strong and loving. My three children who are healthy and radiate beauty and joy. My body, although it’s been through a lot this year, it’s tough and mine. My skin shows signs of wear and tear, hardships, pregnancies, too much sugar, sun worshiping, neglect, but it’s mine and I accept it. It’s become more than this coat that I wear. It’s comfortable, it’s been stretched and it is smooth, it is covered with freckles and really long ankle hairs that I always forget to pass over with a razor in the shower, and it’s me, and it’s mine, and I accept it.


Time passes on, sometimes I want to grab the minute hands on the clock and keep them from ticking on. I want to forcibly take the arms and hold them in place. I want to wedge something in there so they stop clicking, just for an hour, or a day. So I can listen to Silas giggle a little longer, so I can dance in the living room with Hudson and Berlyn. So I can memorize the phrases that fall out of their mouths, silly words and alliterations that are laughable and ridiculous. So I can kiss my husband’s bearded face and never come up for air. So I can touch all these things one last time before they get covered in dust and another year passes, and I forget.

I want to live in this moment of 32 going on thirty-three. This moment where I’m on the cusp of change, wind violently whipping through my hair, and my thoughts on fire, as my feet stand close to the edge of something new; another year of this life. This perfect, brilliant life that God has entrusted me with, that is filled with fireworks and joy and sparkling sunshine and it all pours all over me, and then I jump in.

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Here’s to thirty-three.

I’m not afraid to grow each year, to get gray hairs or strange pains, or to live.

I am strong. Life has hit me, it has held me, confused me, tamed me, and strength grew out of it.

At the beginning of yoga class, we set an intention for ourselves. What do we hope to get out of the class today? I always think the same thing: release of tension. And when I emerge from the class door, sweaty and tired, I feel softer and lighter. The tension in my body was left in that hot room, and I feel the velvety release.

Last year my intention was to survive, and I did. I made it through a near death experience, I made it through my baby’s near death experience, and I made it through raising a newborn and my two other children, I made it through sleepless nights and unwashed underwear. And I’m on the other side.

Now my intention is to be better. Better as a mother, as a housewife, a writer, a friend, a follower of Jesus.


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Let’s do this thirty-three. I’m gonna make you my bitch.


Beautiful post! Cheers to 33!!!

by Jen on October 7, 2013

Happy Birthday!!

by Kristin A. on October 9, 2013

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A day in the Life of a Hippo: Or at least the first 5 Hours


October 3, 2013

I wake up. It’s blurry o’ clock in the morning. The bright numbers on my phone tell me it’s 5:12 a.m. The hallway is dark gray, or maybe it’s that my eyes aren’t open enough. I bump into the vacuum cleaner. I have to remember to vacuum my room today, I think to myself. I get to Silas’,  room open the door and see him standing in his crib whining for me. He’s yelling ma-ma-ma, while stomping his feet.

“Okay, okay, I’m here.” I soothe him.

I sit in the big white chair in his room and put my feet up. I nurse him and fall back asleep in the chair. My neck is sore, I pull it to the left while I am in that lucid state of barely awake and barely asleep. It starts to tingle, so I switch sides, and pull it to the right. My neck is a rubber band. It is a pair of Spanx filled with rocks. It is my constant source of pain and tension. It makes noises when I move. It effects my right shoulder and my upper back. It gives me migraines. And it makes me cry. But for now I put all that aside, and take care of my baby.

10 minutes pass and I lay him back in his crib. I say a silent prayer to Jesus asking to let Silas sleep for another 2 hours, so that I can sleep for another 2 hours. I get back to bed as my husband’s alarm is going off, and jostle him awake. Then I crawl into the warm covers he left for me.

This is how my days usually start. The mornings are bumpy and awkward. By 7:00 one or both of my big kids come into my room to stand next to my face until I open my eyes and scream, “CHILDREN OF THE CORN!”

It happens to be crazy hair day at school for Berlyn today, and Bible study for me and Hudson and Silas. I pop up quickly out of bed and start gathering hair spray and bobbi pins to do Berlyn’s hair. Last year she looked like a living breathing My Little Pony doll with her hair all pulled up at the sides adorned with frilly bows and it was awesome. But we soon noticed all the other kids had spray color in their hair, so this year we bought some. That stuff is basically poison in a can, so instead of spraying it directly on my child’s head and possibly giving her cancer, I decided to spray it on some old extensions I had tucked away from when I was a professional dancer. I kid. But really, I could have been a professional dancer. Have you seen my moves? I’m especially proud of my Sloppy Swish. Google it.

Because I couldn’t be bothered with putting on pants, I was out in my side yard, pants-less, spraying neon pink powder on fake hair that was laying on top of a Free People catalogue while wearing an old concert t-shirt that barely covered my giant cotton sleeping underwear. If you could have seen me, you would have agreed, it was one of my finer, crowning mom moments.

After putting on the finishing touches on Berlyn’s hair, which included no less than 6 peacock feathers I was convinced she’d win best hair in her class. It’s a competition. She wins something, I’m not sure what, because I’ve, er, I mean she’s never won before. It’s probably a piece of sour candy and the approval of the entire class. But it being a competition means my crazy psychotic competitive streak comes out and I MUST WIN, er, I mean, she must win!

I walked Berlyn to school and took mental notes of the other kids in her class and noticed that although they did a excellent job, it wasn’t peacock feathers excellent, and then a text to my husband was sent saying, “It’s in the bag.”

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Later in the day I would discover that it was in fact, not in the bag, and that my daughter lost to a girl who’s mother stuck every available hair clip in her child’s hair haphazardly.


After I returned from dropping Berlyn off at school, I realized Silas was in desperate need of a nap, and I’d have to skip my Bible study group. I don’t put Silas in the nursery because…

“Dis my baby. Yur turn to hold hims is neber.”


Joking. But not really. So he comes to the group with me and I let him crawl around beneath the table to eat the things that get caught in lady’s shoes and it’s fine. But today we would skip it in leu of a nap, which also meant I didn’t have to do my hair or put on mascara, and furthermore it meant that while Silas napped, Hudson could watch 3 Handy Mannys in a row, and eat crackers on the couch. It’s basically Christmas morning.

But I did take pictures, er had Hudson take pictures of me, so you guys would know what I was wearing on Wednesday.

IMG_3691 IMG_3698

Stretchy pants, the shirt I wore last Wednesday, and purple running shoes that I have no intention of running in. Because I don’t run.

I have asthma.

And a running allergy.

The night before I made a terrible mistake. I baked pumpkin loaf with freshly grated pumpkin and toasted pumpkin seeds. It sounded good in theory. Plus, it was an Alton Brown recipe and he’s seems trustworthy, so I went with it. So after I dropped Berlyn off a school, I cut into the loaf for the first time and popped the generous slice of bread in the toaster oven and it toasted while the Handy Manny theme song started. I was excited to sit down at the table with my steaming cup of coffee and my freshly baked nob of pumpkinny warmth. But then I bit into it and SEEDS! Blechh, chewy, stringy seeds were all over the loaf, and they ruined my beautiful taste of the fall.

Lesson learned: Don’t put pumpkin seeds in your loaf. Even though it seems resourceful and like it would be a nice addition, but it’s not. It’s crap.


UPDATE: apparently I was supposed to shell the seeds. Duh, and also I ain’t got no time for dat. Next time I’m using walnuts.


I thnk you have to take the pumpkin seeds out of the shell…..

by Maurine Fischel on October 3, 2013

My new favorite post. You’re awesome and I wish we were neighbors. Oh, and happy (almost) birthday!!!

by Sarah on October 3, 2013

So much good stuff in this post! And just so you know, I think Berlyn’s hair looked awesome. I would totally bring Rilyn to you for a crazy hair updo if there was a prize at stake.

by Heather on October 3, 2013

Did you toast the pumpkin seeds first? You don’t shell pumpkin seeds you just need to roast them in the oven for a while before eating/using in baked goods.

by Kayleigh on October 29, 2013

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