HIPPO BRIGADE

Barefoot dentist

So, I’m trying to enjoy a sabbatical, but I keep wanting to share with you.

I feel like it’s okay, because it’s just random photos of my life. That’s okay, right?

Here’s some stuff that’s been going down on the Hippo Ranch:

Berlyn had her very first dental appointment. If she’s anything like her mother, she’s going to have a long and uncomfortable life ahead of her filled with the dentist appointments, uncontrollable drool, and lots and lots of pain.

But she took it like a champ. She actually loved it. She got to lay down and watch Cars and wear fantastic zebra sunglasses so the bright light wouldn’t distract her from watching a movie on the flat screen that hung 4 feet above her head.

After her teeth were all clean and shiny, she went on a date.

And I left the house yesterday without shoes.

Yup. No shoes.

I loaded up the car to drop the kids off at my mom’s and run errands.

I remembered coffee, extra diapers, I even remembered to bring snacks, but no, I couldn’t be bothered with remembering to put shoes on my feet.

Good thing my mom and I are the same size because she let me borrow these shearling flip flops.

I’ve never been so excited to wear shearling flip flops in all my life.

Thanks mom, you’re a peach.

8 months, some succulents, and a toothache

It’s been a pretty stellar week over here.

Hudson turned 8 months.

He likes to crawl everywhere and cruise on furniture.

He likes to chew on the dog’s tail.

He likes to eat orange slices.

And he super loves his sister.

I got a wolly pocket

It’s this crazy pocket thing that you fill with plants and hang from your wall.

It’s supposed to look like this when it’s hung:

But mine looks like this:

It weighs like 45 pounds and is too wet to hang. I got a little excited and I over watered the thing.

It’s drying out in the garage, and when it’s done I plan to hang it in my room.

And yesterday I had an emergency root canal. I didn’t take photos of me in the chair, but this is basically what I looked like:

Hot.

Sabbatical

I’m hitting pause.

I’m at a point in my bloggering life where I need to put down the laptop and focus on more important things…

Like finishing my morning cup of coffee without microwaving it 3 times,

and reading books,

and talking to my Maker,

and spending more time with my babies.

It will be a short sabbatical, I promise.

And in the meantime, I’ll try to update every once in a while with photos.

Cheers.

Puffy Painted Rainbows

I’ve always been in love with animals.

Except only the soft furry ones.

Birds look like half-dinosaurs, and snakes are icky.

But bunnies are precious, and so are pandas, baby lions, horsies and cheetahs.

I used to draw cheetahs all the time when I was young. I even did a report on cheetahs.

I once asked my mom for a cheetah.

She said no.

She listed off reasons about why it would be impractical and something about government violations.

Always with the ruining of perfectly good ideas, mom.

She got me a cat instead.

It sorta looked like a cheetah.

I used to dress her in doll clothes.

My cat did not appreciate this.

Apparently my cat was not a slave to fashion like I was.

I’d decorate tiny shirts for her with phrases like, “Puuurfect” puffy painted on. Then I’d do a rainbow, for no reason in particular.

I was just really good at puffy painting rainbows.

I don’t think my cat really “got me” on an artistic level.

Because she’d always resist me when I tried to put the shirt on. At the end of our struggles I’d be covered with bright pink scratches and she’d be in a Beckey-original creation.

It never seemed like a fair trade off.

After that I’d shove her in the drawer and shut it.

Just because I could. I had to show her that I was bigger. And bigger always wins.

Then I’d feel sorry for her and open the drawer and try to snuggle with her. Turns out that cats don’t really like to be snuggled after they’ve been humiliated by a wearing shotty puffy-painted shirt and then shoved in a drawer.

*Scratches*

*Tighter snuggling*

*Face and neck scratches*

*Even tighter snuggling*

*Severe loss of blood*

What my kitty didn’t know was the harder she resisted my squeezes the more I wanted to cuddle her. This ebb and flow of emotion later manifested itself in my dating relationships. But that’s a story for another time.

I was positive I out grew this compulsive need to snuggle soft animals until their eyeballs pop…

But this incriminating photo was taken yesterday by my husband.

I still love the cuddles. And although you can’t tell in the photo, Zoey is trying hard to escape and I’m practially pinning her down.

Zoey should just be glad I don’t still have my puffy painted shirt.

It would have fit her purrrfectly.

Berlyn-isms

It’s time we check in with Berlyn, with a segment I like to call, “Hey Berlyn, how ya been?”

Berlyn is doing some pretty awesome things lately. She just celebrated her half-birthday. Something that never dawns on me until my good friend Sarah reminds me (our daughters were born on the same day), because Sarah loves herself some half-birthday celebrating, and seriously, who doesn’t love celebrating?

Except we celebrated by doing nothing.

But I thought about it. So in a way, my brain celebrated. I imagined cake, which is almost like the real thing, just with less calories.

Berlyn is pretty amusing lately, and she’s currently the midst of developing a rather quirky side.  Being weird is a fabulous quality, and I encourage her daily to be creative and imaginative.

Here are some amazing words she has coined:

Necky fries- are band-aids you wear around your neck

Menu beer-beer that you drink

Graguling-the noise that baby Hudson makes

Specking toons- (the name she gave her jacks game)

Net golder- a game you play

Weezer-the tree cutting tool the gardener uses to cut the really tall trees

happy jamb-o-lie-what you say when it’s someone’s birthday

no balines- when you prick your nose.

She’s also cultivated a few imaginary friends to hang out with.

After Hudson was born, she came up with Baby Lizard. She feeds and burps Baby Lizard. She puts him in the high chair and lays him down in the crib.

Then she came up with Clocky. He’s her best friend. He drives a black Volkswagen and has blue hair

And last night there was Moomie and Zoomie. They took a bath with her. And they brewed beer with her. I think I have to watch out for these two.

Plus, what is Berlyn’s fascination with beer?

And why are all her imaginary friends boys?

Hummm…
And then there’s the subject of her favorite songs.

Right now she’s on an early 90′s kick,  so naturally she’s been listening to

The Tootise Roll by the 69 Boyz

Pray by MC Hammer

and Ice, Ice Baby.

So let’s recap:

My daughter is brewing beer in the bathtub with boys, listening to rap music, and wearing necky fries.

Awesome.

Judgement Call

There were gnats in my wine bottle.

Drunken gnats to be exact.

I was making dinner when I poured some wine into a baking dish, and two tiny gnats floated out with the wine.

*It must be noted that the bugs died in a peaceful, drunken-stupor kinda way.

I think what happened was, I left the wine uncorked for a few hours when I used it the other day, and two thrill seeking flies took notice.

I’m pretty sure one of them, turned to the other and said, hey, you see that bottle over there? There’s a hot chick on the front. Let’s go see what that’s all about.

And the other one was all, Uh, okay.

Then I unknowing corked them up and threw the bottle in the fridge, and out they floated two days later; bloated with cheap wine from Trader Joe’s.

I looked around the kitchen to seek council from someone else to see what I should do, but the only person around was Hudson.

He just smiled and slapped his hand on the floor.

So I took it as a sign to use the gnatty wine. I mean, really. Wine is mainly comprised of alcohol. And alcohol kills germs.

PLUS, I’m baking with it, in a oven set to 350 degrees of bacteria-killing-heat.

So whatever, I used it. Phasshaw, you can all suck it. Don’t even tell me you’re above using wine with flies in it.

A few days before that, one of my kitchen drawers wouldn’t close all they way. I figured it was one of my 12 spatulas that probably fell down the back of the drawer, so I investigated and pulled out this fancy package:

A Chinese fork and spoon set.

Um, excuse me…it’s a Native American-Chinese fork and spoon set.

The old owners of my house must have left it.

I washed it, and handed it over to Berlyn.

She loves it. Especially since the girl in the picture is holding an axe and is smiling.

But is that gross? I gave my daughter someone else’s utensils?

What if they had a staph infection? Or herpes?

I washed it.

Whatever.

Oh, and a few days before that Hudson peed through his diaper on to my bed.

And I haven’t changed the sheets yet.

I’ve just been laying in dried up baby pee.

So apparently I’m making all these judgment calls, but my judgement keeps telling me, eww, that’s kind of gross, but do it anyway. It’s like my judgement is a 14-year-old boy with boobie posters on his wall.

And, somehow I’m totally okay with that.

All teeth fall out

Every night I switch off the light, close my eyes, and make attempts of peace in harmony in my subconscious. I visualize lemon meringue pie and pink bunnies, and how amazing it would be to have bouncy, shiny hair. I visualize Jason Bateman in a speedo, and street tacos, and drinking Prosecco in Union Square.

But as soon as I drift off into sleep, I have an anxiety attack.

My body becomes an angry, dark place and all my muscles clench up like a butt-hole at a proctology appointment. My fists ball up, my spine becomes a crocked disaster, and my jaw gets insanly sore. It’s like my body is telling me, I hate sleep, and I don’t want to do it, no sir, I don’t.

And then my mind chimes in and says, you dumb-ass, sleeping is the most magnificent gift. It’s glorious, and it’s the one thing I look forward to all day. Stop F-ing this up for me!

And thus, a war is waged.

When I wake up in the morning, I’m like, what the crap? Why do my teeth hurt? Why is my arm all the way over there, that doesn’t seem natural. And why can’t I look left anymore?

I can deal with a sore body. That’s fine. I can do yoga or stretch to work the kinks out (although I never do). But my mouth is another story.

The teeth thing really bothers me, I have dreams of my teeth shattering and crumbling into pieces. Like those sugar sculpting tv shows on the Food Network. You know where they spend 8 hours making a 5-foot piñata out of delicate pink and blue sugar, and then they have to move the thing 20 inches in front of them to have it judged, and the whole thing shatters, and everyone is like, “OH SHIT!” but honestly, we all knew it was coming. Because it’s a piñata, made of sugar.

So, yeah. My mouth is like the shows on Food Network.

And my teeth are poorly built sugar piñatas.

I used to have a mouth-gaurd that I’d wear at night, but it mysteriously disappeared. I’m not positive, but all signs point to my dog eating it. The recent dry hacking, coupled with her repulsive ability to eat anything, especially if it’s thickly coated in my morning drool, was what ultimately tipped me off.

Thanks Zoey, now all my teeth are going to fall out, and it’s all your fault.

Plus, you owe me 400 dollars. Bitch.

**Totally unrelated note, Zoey doesn’t mind that I call her a bitch, because technically speaking, she is one.

So, why is my mouth so stressed out?

Or, better question, why am I so stressed out?

My life is pretty awesome. I don’t have a schedule that I have to adhere to, and my kids are so frickin’ rad. Seriously, have you met them? You need to, they’re amazing.

I get to do practically anything I want, which means my days are filled with going to the beach, the pool, and the mall, and hanging out with my best friends.

Although, I do touch a lot of poo within a given day, and I get yelled at by both my baby and 3-year-old, and on really special occasions, my mom. I usually have Hudson sitting on my left hip, so that I’m free to dole out snacks for Berlyn with my right hand. I am constantly cleaning up paint, play-doh, and Golden Puffs, meanwhile, my boob is in my baby’s mouth. Oh, and speaking of my boobs, they have lost all discretion, and have been spotted by 3 of my neighbors and at least 4 Container Store employees, and that was just yesterday.

Being a mommy is tough, and even though my mind is okay with it, my body is telling me otherwise.

If I don’t get a vacation from these kids soon, I’m going to end up toothless.

I feel like there’s a joke in there about my husband benefiting from me having no teeth.

But seriously, when all my teeth crumble and shatter into a million pieces like those sugar creations on TV, it won’t be funny.

Okay, maybe a little funny because I can wear one of these:

These are a few of my favorite things…

I’ve been shopping lately.

Online.

But instead of buying stuff, I’ve been putting things in my virtual cart, then I close the computer, and walk away.

AH-HA!

I’ve outsmarted myself.

See? That way I don’t buy something senseless.

I’ve already saved thousands of dollars doing this.

Gee, look at me, all savvy, and whatnot.

I guess since I’ve saved thousands of dollars, I could afford to buy something…

Here are a few of my favorite things right now.

What should I get??

Yeah, my vote is for the hippo wall hangers too.

Pieces of me

I had some moles removed today.

I miss them already.

Especially the hairs that grew egregiously out of them.

They were taken from me and then, against their will, put in tubes with tight fitting lids to be taken somewhere unknown.

**Test are being run.

Moles are being sliced open.

Hairs, strewn about.**

But then what?

Trash?

Incinerator?

KFC secret recipe?

I’ve had a few body parts taken; some organs, some teeth, and now some moles.

But where do these things go?

Does the doctor put my placenta in a doggie bag, double-knot it, and alley-oop it into the trash, on top of  a banana peel and used paper towels?

Or maybe all my parts go into a special collection?

Perhaps it’s metal drawer with my name on it.

My drawer would have stickers on it.

Or those bejewled crystals that spell out my name.

In pink. Naturally.

Maybe they store all my pieces in a big freezer, and one day, when they get enough pieces, they can make another me.

It’s like winning the Lottery!

Can you imagine? Two of me?

But the other me wouldn’t be as cute. She’d be all awkward, and globby. She have patchy skin, mainly comprised of discarded moles and old finger nail clippings. She’d have a toothy grin with a total of 6 teeth (4 wisdom teeth and 2 incisors), and her body would be two placentas and two umbilical cords cinching everything in place.

I mean, she’d still be hot.

Just not as cute.

How much alcohol is too much…for your baby?

I’m not a party girl.

I don’t like to get drunk.

I don’t like that sick feeling the next morning. Plus there’s always the inevitable drunk poo, and possible vomiting, and honestly, that’s just too many runny bodily fluids for me.

I do, however enjoy the occasional drink.

But because, I’m nursing Hudson, I have to be mindful of how much I drink.

I don’t want a drunk baby on my hands.

Could you imagine?

Wait–on second thought, let’s not imagine.

So I bought these alcohol strip thingies to test my milk before I give it to the Huds.

He appreciates that.

The other night I went out with a few friends, and had two glasses of wine. They were spread out over 3.5 hours, and I even drove home, but by the time I got home I tested my milk, and wouldn’t you know?

It said I was piss drunk.

I tried to reason with the strip.

“Listen here,” I commanded. “I’m not drunk. I had 2 glasses of wine and a heap of pasta. I’m totally sober. If I were drunk could I do this?”

I started to pat my head and rub my belly simultaneously.

“Or what about this?”

I touched my nose with my index finger while closing my eyes and tilting my head back.

“Hell–ooo? Check this out.”

I moon walked across the kitchen floor. I even threw in a lewd crotch grab, to really drive the point home.

Just then my husband walked in, “Who are you talking to? And what the hell are you doing? You’re totally sauced right now, aren’t’ you?I knew I shouldn’t have let you drive home!”

“No, no. Pat, don’t be silly. I’m talking to the milk strip, see?  I’m showing it that I’m sober. It thinks I should dump this milk.”

“Ludacris. Hey let me see that thing.”

Pat grabbed the strip from me.

“Oh Beckey, this thing darker than the chart! You’re totally drunk right now. You should proably lay down. Here, take some Advil. I’m going to dump this milk. It’s tainted with your irresponsibility.”

“Nooo!!! Don’t dump it. That’s liquid gold. Maybe we can make cheese out of it. Or if we dump it into the garden I bet a beautiful tree will grow. Or maybe you can drink it!”

“Seriously Beckey? A tree? You are totally drunk.”

“Fine. Whatever. I’m going to bed.”