Living One Minute at a Time…


Okay.  I lied.  Sometimes it’s Living One Second at a Time.

You see…we walked to the doctor’s office today.  It’s across the street, about 1/2 a mile away.  It was our little chub-a-love, Josephine’s, 1-month appointment. 

Trumpet sounds for making a month.  Woot-woot.

And on the way back, we said, “Why don’t we stop at the park for 30 minutes.  Maxwell (our 1-year-old) would love that.”

And we said, “And, he’s already pooped two times today, so, despite the fact that we FORGOT his diaper bag, we should be okay.”

We arrived at the park.

Grunt, groan, grunt.  Red face.  And voile!

He was NOT okay.

We were NOT okay.

The smell was NOT okay.

But we stayed at the park for 30 minutes anyway.

Then we make it home.

Perfect.  Josephine will sleep.  Max will eat and sleep.  Adelyne (our 8-year-old) still has a few hours left of school.

Change one diaper.  Leave one infant sleeping in her car seat, and make one hot dog for the freshly changed 1-year-old.


Goodbye to the husband who is off to work.

Good sleeps to the son who is off to nap.

Good job to the 1-month-old still snoring in her car seat.

Good seats to the Momma who is now typing this blog.  2 free hours just for M.E.  Me!

And then it happens…

The doorbell rings.

It’s the scorpion-spraying bug guy.


And then the baby starts fussing.

The toddler starts howling.

The 8-year-old arrives home.


THREE poopy diapers, a double-sided nursing, and an afternoon snack later—I am all down with that.

Now I have 1 sleeping infant.

One 8-year-old playing on her Nook.

One 1-year-old holding his ba-ba (blankie), Elmo (stuffed doll), and watching Elmo’s world on his elephant seat.

How long with this last?

Well, let’s just say that I’ll take One Minute at a Time 😉

How about you? 

Happy week to all.  Like I heard on the radio the other day—Only the first 5 days after the weekend are the hard ones!

Ciao for now.

xo b


Marital Un-Bliss and Lack of Sleep had a Devastating Effect on My Eyebrows

Once upon a time, there was a lady—and she met a guy.  And they thought the other was pretty cute (Well, maybe not initially—but, after a few dates, they were smitten).

Kiss.  Kiss.  Cuddle.  Cuddle.

Dun, dun, da-dun.  Dun, dun, da-dun! Here comes the bride…


And then 12 years later we found ourselves here.

You know…

Old mom (give me old—because at 36 my body TOLD me it was OLD) to a newborn that went from…



To this:


In just under 5 minutes.

And then we finally got him here:


To send him back to this:


Phew!  Back here:


And now for his first international trip—German hospital, here we come:


Finally, bringing him back home to us here…


Besides being exhausted, everything’s looking pretty a-okay, right???

And that’s when we realize that sometimes photos are deceiving.

Here.  Let me give you some examples.

Look at how absolutely lovely (yes, I’m calling us lovely) we look together in these photos:




And, yes.  Times, over the years, were good.

But, oh…

This past Fall it went from:  birds chirping and harps playing while choirs are singing to pictures off the wall, loud shouting, and lots of crying in approximately 2.4 (seconds, that is).

And then that’s when I did it…

Lack of sleep and marital un-bliss did me in!

I loudly announced that I was off to the hairdresser and I was CUTTING my hair!  (That’ll show my husband, eh?  My hair, that he LOVED, was going, going, going…Gone!)

And I drove to the nearest city (we live in a little Polish village) and trudged up two flights of creepy stairs (literally creepy stairs) and announced, “I want to CUT MY HAIR!”

Even the hairdresser questioned my decision making, asking me many times…

How short?

Are you sure?

How about just a couple centimeters?

Loudly did I protest!

No…Cut it all.  To my chin!  Get rid of my hair.  Oh, and, by the way, color it while you are at it!  Color it…This color!  (I pointed to a color on the chart).

Again the hair dresser questioned…

Are you sure?

How about this color instead…???

Boy—I must be very opinionated and protest loudly because I INSISTED…

No!  This color.  This short!

And, so, reluctantly, she did it…

And, yes.  She was RIGHT.  I was WRONG!

My hair.  Oh, my once rather decently glorious hair went from decently glorious to ‘scarecrow in a field’ worthy in just under 2 hours.


Well.  Nothing I could do now.

(Speaking too soon, obviously)

Ooooooh, look!  A lady that can pluck my eyebrows!  Here I go, I’m gonna clean up my brows.  Yes!

(Laying myself down on the table)…

Nothing too crazy, okay?  Just normal eyebrows, okay?  I said to the eager looking cosmetologist.

Okay…she responded.

And that’s when I felt it…

A refreshingly warm liquid being painted onto my eyebrows.

I thought—What?  Is she going to wax my brows?  I thought she was going to pluck my brows.

And then she did something else.  She wiped the liquid off.

That’s odd.  I thought.  Maybe it’s a new treatment for brows—kind-of like a brow-cial (instead of facial).

And then she did something else.  She plucked my brows.

Now curiosity was KILLING me.

Hmmm.  It appears she’s done.  I sit up.  She hands me a mirror.

Friends, that’s when I realized that my husband—although the CULPRIT in this original bit of marital dispute-was The Winner.  I was CLEARLY the loser.

And to prove that he won and I lost, I’ll post these:



While he still looked like this:



Moral of the story…

When you are in a time of marital un-bliss and you feel like you NEED to do something crazy in order to simply survive, sit back, open your computer, and take a look at my eyebrows.

If those suckers don’t convince you, well, then, perhaps counseling will…

God bless counseling.