I think a lot lately about what I put “out there.” Annie takes everything literally. If we say we’re going to do something, we have to do it. There is no tricking her anymore. If I say I’m mad at her, I have to also act mad (that means no giggling at exaggerated pouts). I am setting an example for this child and I have to say exactly what I mean and then live it. It’s surprisingly hard.

I use sarcasm a lot…too much now, I think. Annie isn’t old enough to understand it, and lately I’ve seen her looking at Mike and me with confusion. She’s hearing our words, but not our meanings. So now I not only have to be more careful about what I say, but how I say it, too. I have to do my best to make sure she doesn’t misunderstand me.

It’s my selfish hope that one day she’ll want to read what I’ve written about my life, and because of that I try to be careful about how I tell my stories. I rarely use swear words in writing because I don’t think I need to. I sometimes break out my thesaurus because I want to use a more descriptive adjective. But, I sometimes get too caught up in the telling of the story and forget why I’m telling it. I don’t think things through and I don’t express myself the right way and things get confused. My point isn’t delivered. Things go off the rails.

I write because, despite years of denying it, I actually do like it. Telling stories is fun, and knowing that people are listening is amazing. But I am also writing for a little person who will someday be a full-grown person, and this is our written history. That’s dramatic and silly but these words really will live forever so I have to make sure they read clear.

I went to a conference last year where a speaker went on at length about intention. The gist is that we should think about the intentions in everything we do: why are we doing something, what do we want the end result to be? What are my intentions? When I was a kid I often spoke without thinking. Writing lets me take all the time I need, and yet I still lose focus and forget to write to my intention. When my written words are misunderstood, then I know I need improvement. I make notes. What can I do differently next time? How can I get better?

I need to improve my communication in all ways. There’s not a lot of room for error. My intentions are good and knowing that gives me the ability to pick myself back up after things go awry. If at first you don’t succeed. This is the example that I want to set for Annie. Try, try again.

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When I became pregnant with Madeline I didn’t have an obstetrician. At that point, Dr. Looove had been doing all my girlie things so I hadn’t needed a Lady Business doctor. She suggested a few OBs, but I decided against them because they delivered their patients at the old, rundown UCLA hospital. That wasn’t appealing to me. I wanted what the stars had! This is LA, after all. So I found me a doctor that delivered at St. John’s Health Center in Santa Monica. You may remember that hospital from such notable births as Katie Holmes’ daughter, Brooke Shield’s daughter, and Tom Brady’s kid that he didn’t have with Giselle. I knew if it was good enough for these celebrities, it would be good enough for me. (I hate that I cared more about what celebrities had given birth at the hospital than what level NICU the hospital had. I was just clueless. St. John’s is a great hospital but it wasn’t great for our situation. ANYWAY.) While I was there on bed rest, Dennis Quaid’s twins were born down the hall in a fancy birthing suite. Dennis was seen by tons of my friends and family, walking the halls and riding in the elevator like a regular dad. He even spoke to some of them. GASP!

I’m telling you all this not to brag of my fanciness (I think it is well-established that I am not fancy), but to say that I have some experience in the whole “celebrity birth stories” realm. Dennis Quaid is definitely not in the same stratosphere of fame as Beyonce and Jay-Z, but the hospital DID up their game when he and his children were on the maternity floor. Mike and my other visitors said there were paparazzi outside of the hospital when the twins were born, but the hospital’s security kept them far enough from the entrance to the hospital that they didn’t bother anybody. Every visitor had to check in with security in the lobby, and then again when they reached the maternity ward. There were extra security guards patrolling the floor. It was a tight-ship, but it was all done without disrupting any other patient or patient family.

There are tons of rumors flying around about the birth of Babyonce: They rented out an entire wing of the hospital, they put tape over the security cameras, they renovated an entire suite for their personal use. And don’t even get me started on the rumors that Beyonce was faking the pregnancy and actually had a surrogate. The story that’s getting the most traction involves a family that claims security guards allegedly prevented from seeing their premature infants in the NICU (I say allegedly because the hospital denies this claim).

Now then. I AM fancy when it comes it NICU experience. I actually have been prevented from seeing my child in the NICU – four times, to be exact. Every time it was because there was a dire medical emergency going on in the NICU and NO parents were allowed in. The night Maddie arrived in the NICU, no other parents were allowed in for THREE HOURS.  When you want to see your very sick baby and you can’t, it’s upsetting, even when you know it’s for an extremely important reason. If what the NICU parents at Lennox Hill are saying is true, they have every right to be LIVID. If it had been me, the scene I’d have caused would be the stuff of legend. Jay-Z would be rapping about a crazy lady taking down security guards with her bare hands.

Here is my biggest problem with this whole rumor-laden fiasco – the hospital blew it. They lost control of what was happening on their maternity floor. The hospital has confirmed that Beyonce and Jay-Z had their own security detail. I don’t think that should have been allowed. It’s a bunch of guards completely unfamiliar with how Lennox Hill’s maternity floor operates. These private guards were only there to protect the interests of ONE family, at the expense of all the others. Lennox Hill should have been like, “Yo Hov, we got this. We’ll provide our own security guards who understand this joint, and we’ll add it to your hospital bills bills bills.” Experienced Lennox Hill security staffers would never have prevented family members from seeing other patients. They would have known better.

I hope that Beyonce and Jay-Z are mortified by these claims, and do their best to apologize for any inconveniences others may have faced due to their presence – rumored or not. And I really, really hope Lennox Hill learns from this and does it better the next time a mega-famous family delivers a child in their hospital. Regular non-famous parents deserve better.

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2012 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

Last week Maddie’s impending birthday gave me insomnia, so I watched a lot of the coverage of the Penn State Scandal (read that link for the basics if you’re unfamiliar). There isn’t one part of the story that isn’t horrifying. From the alleged rapes of at least eight minor boys to the massive cover-up that COUNTLESS people were involved in, it’s all despicable. But there’s one part of the story that has really gotten under my skin – the fact that many people have come to the defense of Joe Paterno.

These people say that Paterno didn’t deserve to be fired because he didn’t witness the molestation. They are also quick to point out his long tenure at Penn State, along with his win/loss record and national championships, as a sort of virtual get-out-of-jail-free card.

Longevity and a history of success do NOT make ANYONE above the law. And while I know that “technically” JoePa didn’t break any laws (which is nuts), so many moral laws were violated. Not only did he not call the police after learning about Jerry Sandusky’s suspected abuse, but he continued to interact with Sandusky who remained on campus with emeritus status. How could Paterno do that and live with himself? He gave little thought, it seems, to the concerns of the victims, or the possibility that Sandusky might abuse other children.

The rapes of little boys allegedly took place in the locker room of the football building. Did that not anger Paterno? If he was literally a professor at Penn State, this would be his classroom. And if a professor had covered up something so serious, that teacher would have been thrown out of the University so fast we’d all have felt the breeze. Why should Paterno be any different?

Paterno was the face of the program. The top. The Head Coach. The buck stops there. To whom much is given, much is expected, and the head coach of any sport at an institution of higher learning has been given a lot. We trust coaches to lead us, teach us, guide us. They should be held to the highest moral standards, not the minimum.

I’m not naive – a good football team can bring in more money than tuition. I went to a school with a massively successful football team. The pressure on Paterno to keep football profitable must have been insane. But you cannot care more about your football program than the well-being of children, no matter how much money is at stake. Money is never more important than children. Keeping a job and preserving a legacy is not more important than children.

I feel sick for the victims and their families. The parents of these boys thought their kids were safe. They trusted the coaches in charge of their kids’ well-being. They were betrayed. I played sports my whole life. Imagine if that was my coach. Imagine if that was your child’s coach. Imagine if that was your child.

It is beyond contempt.

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• Tuesday night/Wednesday early morning Mike and I woke to the sound every parent hates: their child throwing up in bed. Mike grabbed Annie and brought her into the kitchen to clean her while I changed the bed’s sheets. Annie then proceeded to throw up all over Mike and the kitchen. Annnnd after we cleaned her up from that, she barfed in the living room. So that was awesome. After her puke trilogy, she immediately started acting like she felt better. Puke and rally! She will thrive in college.
• Thanks to all of you, we came in fifth in the Living Spaces YouTube contest. That gives us a cool $1,000 in furniture! You all are the BEST! We’ve started family discussions on exactly what furniture we want. I would love a bedroom set, Mike wants family room furniture, Annie wants a trampoline (which they don’t sell at that store, but shhh), and Rigby wants a big floor cushion. We might have to compromise.
• Speaking of the YouTube contest, Annabel is obsessed with the video. Is there a stronger word than obsessed? Because that’s what Annabel is.



if you can’t see the video above, click here

I think she might be one of the vainest toddlers ever.

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2012 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

Annabel started to notice bandages after her last round of vaccines. She would poke them over and over again, then look up at me with a look on her face that seemed to say, “This is ugly. Get it off of me.” Over this past weekend, she and I both scraped our knees (what can I say, we’re clumsy) so I went to the store for some Band-Aids. I figured I’d blow her mind and get her something with cartoons or sparkles or whatever. I looked at the selection and came across these:

Once I got over the fact that these freaking things cost $4.49, I couldn’t help but notice the Band-Aid princesses were segregated. And uh…what the what is up with THAT?

They’re all Disney Princesses, right? Did the Princess and The Frog come out so incredibly recently that it wasn’t possible to add her bandages to the box of white girls? But no, a little googling showed me that these Princess and The Frog Band-Aids came out in 2009.

A little googling also showed me that actual retail price for these freaking Band-Aids is $3.49. Thanks for the obscene mark-up, Ralphs! They’re not cigarettes, they’re Band-Aids, jeez.

I do not like these two separate but equal boxes. I don’t get it. Didn’t Disney teach us to paint with all the colors of the wind?

Since Ralphs was already robbing me blind, I bought both boxes. When I got home I mixed up all the Band-Aids and placed them in my first aid kit. I then grabbed two, one for me and one for Annabel.

In case you are confused, my leg is on the left

Annie loves her Princess Tiana Band-Aid so much she can’t stop poking it and saying “Oweee” and “ooo boo!” She also likes to jam her finger into my Band-Aid, prompting me to say %^$%! and *^$#%!

Someone in my house thinks I’m being ridiculous because “they’re just Band-Aids,” (Rigby is so dismissive of my feelings). I’m not so sure. Seriously, shouldn’t they all be in the same ridiculously overpriced box?

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2012 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

People die, it happens every day. Violence happens all the time.

I have stopped asking why, because there isn’t ever going to be an answer that I can accept.

It’s too much to bear. The victims of the Tucson shooting didn’t deserve to die. But as I sat glued to the news, my mind was with the families and the pain and shock I knew they would be in.

Then I found out one of the victims was a little girl, and I cried. I cried for her family, because I have a sliver of an idea what their lives will be like. I don’t know the specific pain that they are feeling, but I do know the exquisite agony of losing one of the brightest lights in your life.

Christina Taylor Green was a beautiful nine year old girl whose father is employed by the Los Angeles Dodgers. Long-time readers will know that I was employed by the Dodgers until the end of 2008. I have been thinking a lot about what I would say to him, since we have so many people in common. And….I don’t know.

I wish that I would have some sort of perfect thing to say, but I don’t. I am a realist. I can’t tell him it will get easier, I can’t tell him he’ll have peace. I can’t tell his wife that the little girl that looked like her will come back, because I know that’s all she wants to hear. I can’t lie. Their life as they knew it is ruined.

And above all, I can’t answer the question that they will ask themselves for the rest of their lives: Why?

I wish I knew. I wish I knew why it had to be Christina. I wish I knew why it had to be Madeline.

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In Southern California, rain is rare. So when the water falls from the sky, it is something that catches your attention. Growing up, it was exciting when it rained. It meant we had recess inside, Heads Up Seven Up and drawing on the chalkboard. In college it was an excuse to sleep in and skip class. And when I was working in an office, it made my commute longer but the sound of the drops pinging on the roof of my car somehow made that OK.

As a parent, rain can be a pain the butt. Kids want to go outside and run around. My park plans with Madeline were ruined a few times thanks to downpours. At the time, I really lamented that we didn’t get to spend the day sliding, swinging, and digging in the sand. I was annoyed we didn’t get the fresh air we both needed, irritated that our plans had to change.

Yesterday had a load of errands to run, but I was blindsided by rain. It definitely wasn’t baby-appropriate weather. I was annoyed, irritated that my plans had to change. I stood in the nursery and looked out the window at the drops crashing to earth.

And then, I realized something:

It rained the day of my wedding.

It rained the day Annabel was born.

My marriage and Annabel’s birth were rainbows on what would have been otherwise gloomy days.

The days that Maddie and I were  to go to the park weren’t wasted. We snuggled under blankets, played games, and bounced on my bed. Wonderful things we wouldn’t have done if it was dry outside.

Yesterday, instead of going to the DMV, picking up dry cleaning, and buying ribbon, Annie and I curled up on the couch, practiced standing, and smiled until our faces hurt. Wonderful things we wouldn’t have done if it was dry outside.

There aren’t always bright sides to days where nothing goes the way you planned. I definitely tend to dwell on the inconveniences. But every now and then, when that rainbow peeks through, I’m happy that it rained.

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2012 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

1. Enter a contest for free ice cream. WIN said contest.

2. Convince your awesome husband to go to the grocery store to redeem the coupons.

3. REJOICE when the ice cream is delivered by awesome husband!

4. Scoff at things like “serving suggestions” and “nutritional information.”

5. Scoop a bowl of delicious, delicious ice cream.

6. Finish the ice cream in as few bites as possible. Clean the bowl.

What? How do YOU clean YOUR bowls?

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2012 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

My Grandmother was a prankster who loved April Fools Day. I remember one year she told us there was a snake in the toilet. My brother and I ran into that bathroom so fast, only to hear my Gramma cackling behind us. Another year, she put string in our spaghetti. It got to the point where on April first, we all watched our backs, careful not to fall prey to my gramma’s trickery.

I DO love a good prank, though I have never really been good at pulling them off. I’ve done the easy pranks on April 1st – you know, saying I was fired, or pregnant, or moving, but I longed to do better. And then this year, inspiration struck in the form of a grilled cheese sandwich.

Except, that’s not a grilled cheese sandwich at all. It’s toasted pound cake and tinted butter cream frosting.

It was really easy to do. Just take a loaf of Entenmann’s pound cake and slice it to look like bread:

Get butter cream frosting, and use yellow and red food coloring until it looks like the color of melted cheese:

Toast the pound cake slices so they are brown and warm. You could either use a toaster oven or a regular old toaster. I used the latter.

I cut the pound cake before I frosted the pieces, and this turned out to be a good idea. Less crumbling, plus the frosting didn’t smear all over the place. Once I had my sandwich, I settled on my Gramma’s favorite victim – my dad (or as Maddie now calls him, Bampa). I set the sandwich down in front of him, then stood back and watched.

Taking the first bite and realizing something…wasn’t…right.

“Um…what’s WRONG with this?”

Being a good sport (note the Squirt Bottle of Discipline. My dog is a food grubber.)

Maddie, denying all knowledge or blame for the incident.

mmmm….dessert.

I think I made my Gramma proud today. Did anyone else fool or get fooled? I’m already thinking about next year…

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Ever since we got back from Arizona, it’s been Go Go Go for me. Which means it’s been Go Go Go for Maddie, because she’s my super-awesome pocket-sized sidekick. Which means erratic naps, which means grumpiness for both of us, which means we are both crabby witches. Throw Rigby into the mix and well, I’m not going to follow the rhyme, but you get the idea. Lucky Mike!

Because of this, I only just remembered that I took a couple little videos when we were in Arizona. Most of them are of kids screaming. Why did I think THAT was a good idea? Because MAN, a couple of those videos would be serious birth control for high schoolers. I know just re-watching the videos of three kids shrieking made my ovaries call up my brain and say, “we’re going on vacation! Don’t worry if we’re not back for a few years!” Dang, kids are SHRILL.

I cracked up at this video, though. First, my four year old nephew made me laugh when he said, “excuse me Hedder.” Then, my two year old nephew is just jumping on the bed with abandon for what seems like hours before we finally notice. Third, Maddie is trying SO HARD to be bigger. She’s standing on her tiptoes, and if she’d figured out how to climb onto the bed I wouldn’t have been surprised. And then, at the end…well, I think Mike doesn’t have to worry about Maddie and boys for a while. I know it was her COUSIN showing her the affection, but I think it’s clear that even though Maddie adores Spencer, she is afraid of the cootie monster.

Cooties kill, man.

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