These are a few of my favorite things...

A few days ago I was using my best Mommy-means-business-now voice to convey to Cora that she could absolutely NOT eat another piece of candy. I firmly said, "No more candy and I mean it. No ifs, ands or buts about it," (I am now officially my mother). Cora got such a bewildered look on her face and calmly asked me, "What do you mean about Santa butts?" It took me a second to repeat, "No ifs ands or buts about it" in my head a few times fast to realize how a 3 year old would hear “Santa butts.”

I was trying to stifle my laughter because I didn't want her to forget I was in serious mode, but it was tough. It all went out the window when, in a change of tactics totally unrelated to Santa's derrière, I told her that if she even touched another piece of candy she would have to go to her room, and she looked at me unfazed and said, "Actually, I would rather not," and walked away.

The disciplinarian in me should have lost it, but I broke into laughter instead and couldn't stop. I laughed until it physically hurt. I still am not exactly sure why. I could chalk it up to the fact that Claire decided to scream half the night for no apparent reason and I was therefore running on about 4 hours of sleep, but I really don't think that was it. I think I just remembered how much joy, yes joy, my crazy daughters bring into my life, even in the form of absolute disobedience.

Perhaps the whole situation was hilarious to me because standing in front of me was not my defiant 3 year old, it was me at age 9 when I plastered the side of my bunk bed with Garbage Pail Kid stickers and then let my little sister take the blame for it (poor little Desi claimed she couldn’t remember doing it, but she also couldn’t remember not doing it). It was me on my 8th birthday when I shaved all the skin off my nose and chin after diving face first into the shallow end of the pool just to prove to my parents that “Invincible Amber” would not get hurt, as they claimed, by doing just that. That stubborn little blonde girl pushing all of my buttons had obviously learned from the best, and that thought left my sides aching.

Both Cora and Claire are very trying children, as I am now realizing I must have been for my own very patient mother. But they are also amazing and fun and talkative and bubbly and messy and silly and wonderful. I am so blessed to be allowed to watch them as they navigate their way and find their place in this crazy/beautiful life.

(And for the record, Cora was so concerned with my inability to stop laughing and so certain that mommy had finally lost her mind that she, perhaps fearing that this is what too much sugar actually looks like, told me she didn't want another piece of candy after all!)

Snow What Fun!!!

Last night it snowed on and off for a while. Cora kept begging us to let her go out and build "the biggest snowman ever." Mark and I wanted to wait until there was a little more snow and until the temperature was higher than 20 degrees, but she insisted. When getting the girls suited up we realized that Cora had outgrown her 3T hat and gloves, and her snow boots as well. Of course that didn't stop her from attempting to build her snowman (in fact she only posed for one picture because she was "too busy for pictures"). The small mound of snow behind her in the second picture is in fact the biggest snowman ever.

It was Claire's first snow adventure and once she figured out how to walk in her snow suit she wanted to stay out all night.

One final picture and then I am off to prepare for our family Christmas Eve dinner (baked potato and salad bar anyone?). This last picture is after we had taken the girls back inside and stripped off their soggy clothes. While we were getting Claire in PJs we kept hearing Cora calling us. She was screaming at the top of her lungs, "I am baby Moses. I am baby Moses." This is what we saw (don't ask. She is just weird).

Well we hope all of you have a safe and merry Christmas!

A potty mouth, a Christmas tree and a clean house!

I don't cuss. I can count on 1 hand the number of times I have let a vulgar word slip. I think cussing is occasionally funny in certain circumstances, and quite pathetic and ugly in others. But it is just not for me. I am not looking for praise or trying to make those of you who let the curse words fly feel bad. I just need you to understand that I simply don't cuss so you understand the magnitude of what I am going to say next.

We had an amazing time in Phoenix visiting family and old friends, but I can't tell you about that right now. You see every time I think about the trip, all of the good goes out the window and I am left remembering our flight home. Or lack of a flight home to be more accurate. The story is long and complicated and makes my blood boil, so again I will not tell it. Just know that after 3 hours on the phone with incompetent Delta and Hotwire representatives, I kindly informed the gentleman from Hotwire that he was an a$$, and hung up on him. And I was actually so mad that I didn't even feel bad saying a naughty word. A week has passed and I still don't regret it. In fact, just thinking about the situation still makes me angry, so I am going to quickly change the subject before I have to go buy a large bar of soap and my cuss-count requires the use of 2 hands and possibly toes.

On to happier things, like the fact that Christmas is right around the corner. And if our backyard is any indication, it might be a White Christmas after all.

We finally got our tree two nights ago. It is very small. Only half of my decorations fit on it. And Mark put the kibosh on tinsel this year (sniff sniff). I guess he thought the vaccuum needed a break. Cora was so excited to help decorate, but even more excited when I played her favorite song, The Little Drummer Boy, on repeat (ask Cora who the Little Drummer Boy is and she will tell you his name is Josh. As in Josh Groban!) She acts as a very animated music conductor when the song begins and then plays the air flute in unison with the music. Quite hilarious actually. It took us about an hour to decorate, and it took me about the same amount of time to come to terms with the fact that a child-decorated tree is not symmetric in the least and I was just going to have to deal with that!

I have been baking a lot of goodies for friends/neighbors lately and my kitchen was a complete disaster zone. Okay who am I kidding, the whole house was a disaster zone. I just haven't been able to restore order since we returned from our trip. So this morning my sister, Desi, took Cora to church with her and Claire and I cleaned the house. Well I cleaned the house. Claire learned how to lift the vent cover and helped a whole Barrel of Monkeys escape. Contrary to what my aunt said when she gave them to Cora as a gift, not everyone needs a Barrel of Monkeys (okay so maybe most people, just not a 1-yr-old).

In addition to discovering that our vents are not screwed down, she also discovered baking soda tastes icky, snow globes from the dollar store have a very short life expectancy (her face after she dropped it was priceless), and Claire and pop-up books don't mix well.

But the good news is the house is temporarily clean. And that is definitely worth sacrificing a snow globe, a pop-up book and a few monkeys for!

And so are the days of our lives....

A kid-less friend of mine called me after reading my Mother of the Year blog to tell me that she had changed her mind about having kids and had decided to remain on the pill indefinitely. And then she said one of the funniest things I have ever heard, and I quote, "Well at least days like that are few and far between." Not wanting to further terrify her, I politely muffled my laughter. Although my catastrophic meltdown was unusual, the rest of the day I described was a typical day in the Abercrombie household. Here is an average day in pictures:

The day began with a minor misunderstanding. When I told Cora, Mommy was helping to teach Claire how to drink from a big girl cup, she heard, "Claire can drink from a big girl cup," and kindly offered her some milk.

After the little milk mix-up, we successfully got Cora off to preschool and Claire and I were enjoying some peaceful play time. I was surprised when she actually wanted me to put the princess dress on her, as she is usually trying to shed all of her clothes. I mean the child LOVES to be naked. What I didn't immediately realize was in the time it took me to grab the camera to document Claire's first dress-up experience, she had gone back to her roots. Note the diaper in the upper left hand corner of the photo. Luckily, it was only wet!

At dinner we learned that Claire can successfully wiggle out of her high chair, and that she enjoys sitting on her food much more than eating it (please note the lasagna noodle wedged between her butt cheeks). Cora heard us laughing and stopped her potty break mid-stream to see what all of the commotion was about. You would be shocked to learn how much food can be lodged in the creases of those thunder thighs.

Then it was daddy/daughter fun time while I cleaned up dinner. Okay so maybe not so much fun for daddy (can you even see him?). You be the judge.

We ended the day as usual: PJs, warm milk, story time and then teeth brushin'. This final shot is of Claire's recent obsessesion. She loves to eat Cora's tooth brush holder. When it is not posing a choking hazard to a 1-yr-old, it spends it's time suction-cupped to the bathroom mirror (it is the suction cup aspect that she most loves to suck on).

And there you have it folks. Our normal day. And as Cora would say, "Good times. Good times."

Here's to you washing machine.

Flu season has struck with a vengeance, and I have lost count of the number of puke/poop covered clothes/bed sheets/towels I have jammed into my trusty old washing machine in the past week, but I bet if you ask our washing machine she would know (I refer to her as a "she" because to me she has a maternal aura about her). And if that reliable piece of metal could talk, oh the loads of secrets she could share, pun intended.

Purchased used with $200 of hard earned Red Lobster tip money, we found her about six years ago in a newspaper classified. Although fully functional when we bought her, her previous owner had tossed her out into the garage where months of dust and grime began to hide the shiny, hardworking machine she knew she was meant to be. When we brought her home I began the restoration process. I dusted and scrubbed and shined and polished her back to her former self, and for that she has repaid me with years of loyal, uninterrupted service.

She has been hauled, and not gracefully I might add, to three different houses; never complaining about the dents and dings sustained along the way. And she sat quietly by as she watched our lives evolve through our loads of laundry.

They began small, dirty and random. Days hiking through the wilderness and climbing mountain tops lead to some smelly socks and rarely changed underwear (I'll pause momentarily while you cringe). Mixed in with the assorted outdoor wear was a server apron or two, and occasionally the sheets from our makeshift futon (and the lack of regularity would make Martha Stewart cringe).

As the years past, the futon sheets became Queen-size sheets that became King-size sheets with a side of crib sheets. The hiking shorts were replaced with work out clothes that rarely saw sweat because they rarely saw the inside of a gym. The server aprons gave way to crisp blue uniforms and coordinating dress suits. And new loads of onesies and spit-up riddled pajamas were added to the mix.

Oh yes, she could weave you the story of our lives if she could talk. And if you got her talking, perhaps she would inadvertently blab the washing machine's most tightly guarded secret: the exact coordinates of the Land of Mismatched Socks. But in all honesty, after years of experimenting with bleach and testing new detergents, spinning in circles and endlessly churning, I doubt either of those things would be her chosen first words. I bet she would impart years of washing machine wisdom.

She would tell you that 9 times out of 10, disasters can be avoided by simply reading the directions, the tag variety in her case (fluffy pillows, dry clean only attire and a lone climbing harness would thank her). She would probably tell you that even though hers boast names like Shout, Tide and Bounce, she still gets by with a little help from her friends. And finally, she would tell you that regardless of how many different methods you use, that grass stain is never coming out. But what defines you is how you choose to deal with said grass-stain, or the now-pink white blouse or the accidentally bleached designer jeans. You can have grass-stained pants and be happy, or you can have grass-stained pants and be angry. Either way, at the end of the day, you still have grass-stained pants.

Now if you will excuse me, I have to go stuff another load of my life into my wise washing machine.

You don't know what you've got until...

I was eagerly looking forward to the Grey's Anatomy premiere on Thursday. I had made that the highlight of my week. I was counting down the days. I would ignore the screaming children, look past the dirty dishes, forget those haunting last 10 pounds that I just can't seem to shake, and for one hour crawl into the perfectly complex world of our favorite interns. But that is not how my Thursday played out. A harsh Wednesday served up a nice helping of reality and left me yearning not for the drama of the McDoctors, but for my own simple little life.

I watched him sleep most of Wednesday night, not only fearful that the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest would cease, but also of the images that would take over when I closed my eyes. It replayed over and over. The look of horror, panic in his eyes as he stumbled backwards. And that sound, that pleading moan. It can't be turned off. It was not the sound of my husband; the man convulsing on the floor was not my husband. The powerful strong provider for our family would not be doing this. He would not be lying there, stripped of all control. I did not know who was slumped at my feet, leaving me to assure his daughters daddy would be okay. I felt it was a lie the second it slipped past my lips. I told him to stop. I screamed it. But it made Claire cry harder and he obviously wasn't listening.

Claire was standing next to him eating an apple as I cradled his head and waited for the paramedics. I just kept telling her what a great job she was doing eating that apple. I kept asking her if she liked it. I couldn't think of anything new to ask her, but I couldn't look down. He had a foamy substance coming out of his mouth and it reminded me of a rabid dog and I couldn't remember him that way. So I just asked Claire again if she liked her apple. No response. There was no one there that could respond. I had already sent Cora next door for help. An officer would later find her sobbing on the neighbor's front porch because they weren't home so she couldn't get her daddy any medicine.

I am a strong, independent woman. I can do many things on my own. Making our family whole is not one of them. That was all I could think of as I followed the ambulance to the hospital. My life does not work without him.

He remembers nothing. I can't stop remembering. And that is why when 8:00 on Thursday night rolled around, the TV was off. I was curled up under a blanket with my husband and our girls reading the same story for the 4th time, and nothing else mattered.

Batman. Where are you when I need you?

I have officially pissed off the universe. It is like I flipped Mother Theresa the bird and now karma is coming back to bite me. Only I didn't. So stop biting already. I have had enough.

I get why we need superheroes. Not to fight evil villains who threaten to take over the world, but rather to conquer the mean people. Like on Thursday when a greedy car salesman made a shady and successful attempt to sell the car we were in the process of buying right from under our noses to up his commission. Superman could have swooped in, punished the mean man and the world would have been right again.

Or what about the corrupt developer who, to further pad his pocket book, is charging everyone in our neighborhood outrageous monthly fees just to call our subdivision home ($300 sound good to anyone?); therefore forcing many to put their dream homes up for sale because they can't afford to put food on the table and pay to put the developer's kids through college too. Spiderman could creep in and make the mean man pay.

Sadly, this is not how the world works. There are no caped crusaders to save the day. And the mean people just get meaner and multiply.

I realize that compared to incurable cancer and starving children in Africa, these scenarios seem trivial. I really am aware of how blessed a life I live and am grateful for it daily. And I do believe that most people are kind and honest and genuinely good, and this is often overlooked because of the occasional mean person who gums up the works.

I just get so frustrated because there is no point in being mean. It doesn't make you feel good. It doesn't make you seem powerful. It doesn't make people like you. It makes the people you are mean to angry. No good can come of it.

So if you are thinking of being mean, stop it. If you are thinking of cussing out the overworked, underpaid barista who accidentally put, God forbid, whole milk in your non-fat latte, don't. Just smile, take your coffee and tell her to have a nice day. And maybe she will. And then Batman's assistance is unnecessary.

Not Quite Mother of the Year Material!

I used to be obsessed with Oprah. You can mock me, judge me, think less of me. I don’t care. I watched her religiously because she was all about empowering women. All women are beautiful. All women are strong. All mothers are amazing. So yesterday, as I sat sobbing on the bathroom floor, I was wondering what Oprah would think of me now. 

Here is what transpired:

I had been up really late working the night before (I work from home, so bedtime for the girls means work time for me). My girls, in an apparent race to beat the rooster, are up before dawn. And although I am half asleep, I whip up a mean batch of pancakes and eggs, feed both girls, bathe both girls, and dress both girls all before 8am. I am on a roll. I leave my 10-month-old, Claire, in her highchair with a sippy cup, plop my 3-year-old, Cora, at the table with a box of crayons and a coloring book, and race to take a 5-minute shower.

I emerge, wrapped in a towel with hair still dripping, to see how much damage has been done (if you know Cora, you know there will be damage). Crayons all over the floor? Not bad. Half the contents of our game closet emptied out? Manageable. An entire cup of yogurt spread evenly on both girls after a failed attempt on Cora’s part to feed her younger sister? Although it is nothing new, I’m officially annoyed.

Still in my towel, I drag both girls back to the tub. I get Claire cleaned off, minus the yogurt that has found a permanent home inside her ear, and dressed. Again. I take her to the playroom hoping to buy me enough time to retrieve Cora. In the time it takes me to pluck Cora from the bath, wrap her in a towel and set her on the couch, Claire has managed to find the only black, permanent marker in the entire house not under lock and key. Like everything she gets her hands on, she eats it. Her lips are black, her teeth are black, her tongue is black. Off to the bathroom we go. Claire is wailing, I am scrubbing; neither one of us getting results.

The doorbell rings. The mail lady would just like me to know there is a naked little blond girl on a princess bike pedaling her heart out down the street. She has contained her laughter until Claire flashes her a black, toothy grin. She is laughing so hard she is almost in tears as she offers to hold Claire while I throw some clothes on.

Five minutes later and order is almost fully restored. And by almost, I mean not even close. Cora is screeching and flailing her legs as I try to dress her and comb her hair. I am in systematic mode now. Shirt. Check. Shorts. Check. Hair brushed. Check. Claire. Crap. She has escaped. I find her giggling in the bathroom as she splashes toilet water all over herself and the bathroom floor. I grab the mop and attempt to balance Claire while I mop up the mess.

Suddenly Cora changes personalities and decides to be mommy’s little helper. I welcome the change and hand over the mop.

Returning to the bathroom, Claire now in her 3rd outfit of the day, we find Cora dipping the mop in the toilet and proceeding to “clean” the entire bathroom. She is wading in an inch of toilet water, wiping down the now soggy toilet paper, the towels, the decorative candles. The trash can has tipped over and old diapers, pads and toilet paper rolls begin using their last absorbing abilities to aid in soaking up the flood.

I exit the bathroom, place Claire in her crib, wash Cora’s feet off and set her in front of the free babysitting service Nickelodeon provides. Then I retreat to the bathroom, empty the trash, bleach the floors, change the towels and the toilet paper rolls, and collapse, sobbing in the corner. I no longer believe a word that comes out of Oprah’s mouth. I am not strong. I am not amazing. I am not in charge. I am exhausted, mentally drained, and near a breaking point. Good thing is, I get to get up and do it all again tomorrow. A second chance to perfect the chaos. Um, yippee?

Welcome to our world.

I love to write. I love to take pictures. I love to stay connected with family and friends. It is the combination of those particular loves that made a friend of mine suggest I start blogging. So here goes nothing.

First, so everyone is on the same page before I begin, let me give you the quick Abercrombie update:

We have been residing for about a year and a half in Kuna, Idaho in a house Mark designed and we love.

Mark is in his 6th year with the Boise Police Department and I am in my 6th year of worrying about him working for the Boise Police Department. My current occupation is financial planner/boo-boo kisser/mac-n-cheese chef/shuttle driver/maid/Superwoman (aka. mommy). The pays sucks (and no raise in sight), but the benefits are unmatched.


Cora Bryn turned 3 in June and is quite a firecracker of a child. She is mostly hilarious too. If you ask her where she saw Santa she will tell you the Vegetable of Trees (aka. the Festival of Trees). Or if she is sad she will tell you she lost her smile and is certain she will not be able to get it back. She loves all things Princess and make believe. She is also extremely creative and loves Play-Doh, coloring and painting. She is occasionally wild, quite the daredevil and mostly always disobedient, but she is also an amazing sister, hugger and friend.


Claire Brooklyn turned 1 in August. Mark calls her the inspector. She will quietly observe a situation and is keenly aware of what is going on around her. She loves her daddy, and prefers him to anyone. By observing Cora she has learned to be quite adventurous and can usually be found leaping off the kitchen table or stuck on a counter somewhere. She learns a new word every day. Her latest vocab addition is "read." She will follow you around with a book begging you to "read, read, read," until you finally drop what you are doing and read. She also loves to take everything out of every drawer/closet/diaper bag/purse/cabinet she can find. She, very unlike Cora, is quite obedient. When asked she will retrieve her own shoes or throw away her own diaper. She is shaping up to be a nice little helper.


Cora and Claire compliment each other nicely and love playing together (most of the time). They consume most of our time and we have morphed into boring homebodies!

So that is it in a nut shell. My next few posts are older blogs that I thought some of you might find amusing and informative. Enjoy!