24 Lies Parents Tell Their Toddlers

1. Big kids don’t poop their pants. You have definitely pooped your pants on more than one occasion. You did it when you were pregnant. And during that marathon when you had a bad case of the runner’s trots. And that one Taco Tuesday you said “F**k you” to moderation and didn’t make it to the bathroom before the shitsunami hit.

2. We’re leaving now! Yeah, you’re leaving in however long it takes to pry his fingers off the monkey bars and drag his convulsing toddler body back to the car. Or:

3. OK, you can stay here, but I’m going home. You’re not going anywhere without your kid, but you really want to go home and binge on cookie dough ice cream and The Vampire Diaries, so you’re relying on good ol’ reverse psychology to get him in the car.

4. You can’t have dessert unless you eat your broccoli. Umm, actually, you can. Mom does it all the time.

5. We’re out of M&Ms. You hid them in an empty Wheat Thins box in the pantry and intend on inhaling them the moment your little tyke’s head hits the pillow.

6. You shouldn’t call people names. Yes, sometimes you should, like that jackass who didn’t hold the door open for you at the post office, or that twat waffle who just walked out of the bathroom stall you went to shit in and didn’t tell you she used the last of the toilet paper.

7. If you don’t brush your teeth, they’re going to fall out. They’re baby teeth. They’re going to fall out even if your kid’s the Bob Ross of tooth brushing.

8. Mama’s got a boo-boo. Mama needs a nap.

9. Daddy misses you! Mama needs a break. Or:

10. Mama needs a break. Mama needs a Valium. Or wine. Or both.

11. It’s broken. You took the batteries out. There’s only so much f**king Vtech you can take in a day.

12. It’s a popped animal balloon. It’s a condom. Although something may have been blown into it at one point.

13. It’s yucky. It’s Starbucks: a hot, steaming, deliciously creamy orgasm in a cardboard cup. (Moan. Sigh.)

14. It’s a milkshake! It’s a spinach smoothie.

15. It’s candy! It’s Tylenol.

16. It’s lemonade! It’s a laxative.

17. It’s just a little scratch! It’s gushing more blood than Mama when her vag is paintin’ the town red.

18. It’s a magic potion! It’s rubbing alcohol. And it’s going to sting like a bitch.

19. It’s just a tiny bugaboo! OMG, IT’S A F**KING COCKROACH, the sperm of Satan himself, sent to impregnate this world with evil and universal grotesqueness. And if you don’t all evacuate the house immediately, it’s going hunt you down with its repulsively long antennae and EAT YOUR SOULS.

20. Dora isn’t on right now. It’s not “on” because you didn’t flip the channel to Nick Jr. You’ve had your fill of anthropomorphic purple monkeys and kleptomaniacal foxes. Besides, you don’t want your kid watching when Dora finally gets busted for whatever hallucinogenic substances she’s toting around in that backpack of hers (the thing talks for Chrissakes; it’s clearly on something).

21. Mama doesn’t know where The Very Hungry Caterpillar is. It’s on top of the refrigerator. If you have to orate that shameless insect’s binging habits one more time, you’re going to follow suit. And you’ll look more “butter” than “butterfly” by the time you’re done.

22. You are driving Mama CRAZY! This implies that you’re not quite there yet. The truth is, you boarded the family-friendly minivan to Crazytown before your kid was even a week old, when he burped up in your mouth for the first time.

23. If you don’t stop (kicking, screaming, tugging on Mama’s nipples, etc.) by the count of three… Not sure if this really qualifies as a lie, because you never actually finish the sentence.

24. That’s it, I’m done! You are never done. The moment you squeezed that little twerp out of your lady bits, you signed a vaginal contract to put up with all of his twerpiness until he becomes an adult twerp. And you’ll likely still opt to put up with it then, because he may be a twerp, but he’s YOUR TWERP.

Honesty may be the best policy, but it’s not always a realistic option if you want to actually survive the toddler years.

© 2015 Samantha Wassel, as first published on Scary Mommy

Experts Reveal the Meaning Behind Moms’ Favorite Valentine Candy

Mamas, have you ever wondered what your favorite Valentine candy reveals about you?*

*Probably not.

Well, wonder no more! Why? Because this year, instead of doing something sappy for Valentine’s Day—like writing my husband an epic love poem or baking my kids heart-shaped sugar cookies—I, your trusty blogger at Between the Monkey Bars, have decided to do something much more practical.*

*Not practical at all.

I hired a team of psychological and sugarlogical experts* to determine the connection between a mom’s candy preferences and her parenting style.

*There was no team. I just sat in front of the computer typing and cackling to myself for a good hour or two.

The results were shocking.*

*The results were total BS, fabricated for the sole purpose of entertainment value.

Here’s what my team of highly-qualified experts had to say:

If You Like Conversation Hearts: 

You’re a Lonely Mom, so wrapped up in your children’s lives that you spend zero time socializing with human beings who are capable of wiping their own butts. You’re literally HUNGRY for adult conversation—even if that “conversation” consists of a lame-ass “U R Special” stamped on a chalky lump of corn syrup.

It’s time to get out, Mama.

It may also be time to spice up your sex life. Or just, you know, have a sex life again. Especially if that sugarcoated “Wink Wink” is the most action you’ve seen this month.

If Assorted Truffles Fit Your Fancy: 

You’re a Spunky Mom who relishes spontaneity and the thrill of the unknown. You like to take the kids on impromptu adventures, tossing them in the minivan and just driving wherever that Honda Odyssey takes you.  

The park? Yes, the park! Who cares if it’s winter, and the slides are covered in ice? It’s all good. When the kids go flying off the end, they’ll land safely in those giant snow drifts.

Chuck-E-Cheese? Hell yeah! Where a kid can be a kid! And a mom can go bankrupt buying tokens, all so her kids can earn enough tickets to buy cheap plastic kazoos. And then she can listen to them THE WHOLE WAY HOME!

Liquor store? Kids, wait in the car. Mama will be right back.

Fun is great, but don’t overdo it. When you spend too much time living on the edge, you’re bound to fall—or be pushed—off of it eventually.

If You Love Dove:

You’re a Zen Mom who craves peace and strives to create a tranquil environment for your children. You spend your days wrapped up in infinity scarves, sipping herbal tea from a mug that says something inspirational, like “Today I choose joy.”

You own the entire Mommy-and-Me Yoga DVD series, and you cherish your relaxation time with your little yogis-in-training.

Tranquility is nice, but don’t forget to vent now and then. It’s okay to lose your shit when the toddler eats your favorite aromatherapy candle. Just flip him the finger while you’re in Mountain Pose. He won’t notice, and we won’t tell. 

If You're A Sucker For Heart-Shaped Suckers: 

You are THAT MOM. The pushover. The literal SUCKER. (You know what they say: You are what you eat.) All your kid has to do is look at you with those puppy-dog eyes, whisper “I wub you, Mama,” and you’ll let him have whatever the hell he wants.

This is a tough case that calls for tough love: Stop letting your kid turn you into his little bitch. 

If You're Nuts For Nuts: 

You’re a Kooky Mom. Some might even call you a tad unhinged. You say things like “If you don’t stop fighting, I’m going to coat your lips in superglue and shove your faces together. AND THEN YOU’LL BE STUCK KISSING ONE ANOTHER FOREVER. BWAHAHAHA.”

And then you might actually do it.

Be careful not to cross the line between a little nutty and full-blown crazy. It’s gonna be damn hard to eat those Ferrero Rochers if you’re wearing a straitjacket.

If You're Hungry For Hershey:

You’re a Martyr Mom, always sacrificing your own happiness for that of your children. You don’t think you deserve “nice things,” so you settle for crap.

But how can I justify downing a $30 box of pretentious truffles when little Johnny Dearest has been eyeing that new Duplo set? We’re not made of money, and Hershey bars are, like, A DOLLAR. Besides, if I close my eyes and don’t think about it too much, I can almost get past the fact that I’m basically chewing on a chocolate-scented candle.

Oh Mama. You are worth so much more than that.

Stop settling. Stop settling for that shit-colored wax that Hershey calls “chocolate.” Stop settling for Daniel Tiger reruns when Channing Tatum is on Ellen. Stop settling for half-eaten dino nuggets, greasy hair, and weeklong shower hiatuses.

(No, seriously: Go take a shower. We can smell you through the computer screen.)

If Ghirardelli Dark Chocolate Makes Your Sweet Tooth Sing:

YOU ARE MAMA, HEAR YOU ROAR! Welcome to the Dark Side. You’ve sampled the sweet, seductive taste of power, and you’re never going back.

What’s that, Sugarplum? You want a cookie? THEN FINISH THOSE BABY CARROTS! And in the meantime, you can sit there and watch ME eat this Oreo! NOM NOM NOM!

Huh? You want to go to the playground? WELL, I WANT TO BE ABLE TO PEE ALONE IN MY OWN HOUSE. WE DON’T ALWAYS GET WHAT WE WANT, DO WE?

Oh, you’re SLEEEEEPY? SLEEP IS FOR THE WEAK! Now stop whining and do some burpees! No, not BURPING IN MY FACE. Gross; you stink. Nevermind. GO DO SOME PULLUPS!

Try dialing it down a notch every once in a while. Remember, Darth Vader’s power trip destroyed his relationship with his kids. Besides, can you imagine trying to drink wine through that bulky mask he wears?

Speaking of wine…

If You're A Big Fat WINE-er:

You are a Creative Mom who knows how to think outside the box. (Just not outside the WINE box yet.) Sure, wine isn’t technically “candy,” but so what? You can get it sweet, white, or red. And you’ve heard it’s good for your HEART! That’s Valentinesy enough for you.

You deserve that glass of liquid love. We know you spent the whole day wiping pee off the floor, listening Mickey Mouse’s gratingly high-pitched voice shouting “Toodles,” and stepping on Matchbox cars.

We feel you, Mama, and we don’t judge.

*

Our team of experts here at BTMB wishes you a Happy Valentine’s Day, filled with whatever candy fits your fancy.

And please remember to SHARE SHARE SHARE! (The post, duh: like we'd ever suggest you share your candy.)

Why Dressing My Toddlers to Play in the Snow Sucks Major (Snow)Balls

Mother Nature must be menopausing this year. I mean, Holy Hot Flash, Batman. Talk about mood swings. First, she lulls me into a false sense of security by keeping the temps high and the grass green well into December. Then, around mid-January, just when I find myself hoping that—perhaps this year—I would be able to avoid the exhausting, yet requisite, process of putting snow gear on my toddlers, she pulls this shit: 

You can bet your bundled ass that the first thing my kids asked to do when they woke up to a world covered in nuisance white was go play in it. If there’s snow on the ground, the soundtrack of my life is reminiscent of the one from Disney’s Frozen, i.e., my kids incessantly belt out, “Do you wanna build a snowman?” until I can’t take it anymore and agree to accompany them outside, so we can all freeze our asses off make memories together.

Kids love snow. It’s a fact of nature. (See what I did there?) When I was a kid, my siblings and I jumped at the opportunity to have snowball fights, go sledding, build snowmen, impale each other with icicles, and use our prepubescent bodies to make awkwardly-shaped snow angels.

The thing is, my kids are toddlers right now. And getting toddlers dressed to play in the snow is about as fun as getting hit in the head with a Hot Wheels car—which is usually what ends up happening if I don’t succumb to their demands to play outside, where they’re actually able to burn off some of their endless toddler energy.

Here’s why getting my kids dressed to play in the snow sucks:

All the things.

Snow-play requires more layering than Kim Kardashian’s wedding cake. I have a hard enough time finding my kids’ socks (the ones I put on their feet, like, five minutes ago). Locating all the random pieces of their snow attire requires me to search multiple closets, dresser drawers, the van, the diaper bag, the spaces between the couch cushions, and (occasionally) the toilet bowl. It basically turns my afternoon into a live-action version of an I Spy book.

Can you spy all the things required for you and your toddlers to go outside? Spot the following items, before your kids lose their shit because they just HAVE to build a snowman NOW: snow pants, winter coats, thermal socks, boots, waterproof mittens, hats, scarves, and LOTS AND LOTS OF COFFEE. (Okay, who am I kidding? Like the coffee isn't always accessible.)

Toddlers have jellyfish limbs.

I can barely get my squirmy-ass kids in the tub, which measures approximately 1.5 toddler x .75 toddler. So trying to shove their writhing bodies into 50 relatively-fitted layers of clothing isn’t exactly a walk in the park. Or, in this case, a walk in the unappealing arctic tundra that our backyard has transformed into overnight.

Oh, and the thumbs of those waterproof mittens? Eff that. My kids don’t need thumbs. Penguins don’t have thumbs, and they do just fine in the cold. Besides, they don’t need the dexterity. We all know that I’ll be the one risking frostbite out there, forced to remove my own mittens in order to properly handcraft “our” snowman, while the kids flop around nearby, barking orders at me like caffeinated seals.

“Bigger! Bigger!” (Any bigger, and I won’t be able to lift its head onto its body.)

“It want some hot cocoa!” (Not a good idea, guys.)

“Why her butt look so funny?” (YOU BOYS BETTER BE TALKING ABOUT THE SNOWMAN!)

Come on, you think my toddlers built this bitch?

Murphy’s Law of toddler shit habits, as it relates to winter clothing.

This basically states that as soon as I finally have all that shit (see “all the things”) on my kids, they either (1) will tell me they have to shit (hopefully in less abrasive language), or (2) will shit. On the spot. Under the 50 layers of snow gear I just wrangled them into.

Either scenario requires immediate removal of said shit (literal and figurative) because I’ll either (1) have to change their diapers, or (2) strip them down layer by layer and plop them on the toilet, where they’ll proceed to waste even more of my time by belting out “Do you wanna build a snowman?” and taking an HOUR to actually shit.

#itsscience

It’s also #bullshit.

And then we’re right back to shoving jellyfish limbs back into all 50 layers of clothing.

By the time I’ve finally managed to get my toddlers snow-ready, we’re usually all so worn-out that we barely make it 30 minutes outside before needing to come back in for snacks and a nap.

Then I have to remove and put away all their snow gear, and by the time that’s done, they’ve usually crapped themselves again.

*Sigh*

Someone needs to tell Mother Nature to get her shit together, before this mama loses hers.*

*Note: When I started this piece, my husband was home from work due to snowy/icy conditions. And now—less than a week later, as I hover over the "publish" button—temps are creeping toward 40. Our yard is mostly mud, and the boys are mourning the death of their beloved snowman.

But I won't be fooled again, and I'm keeping all the snow gear within reach for that cold bitch's inevitable next mood swing.

I Am Not My Eating Disorder, but It Is a Part of Me

Recently, I’ve noticed a strong social media movement aimed at removing the stigma associated with mental health issues. Celebrities are coming out to talk about their struggles with postpartum depression, people are bringing awareness to the many different faces of eating disorders, and individuals turning to medication to treat their depression are finally viewed as heroic rather than weak.

As someone who’s struggled with some of these issues myself, I’m happy to see this push toward awareness and acceptance. I applaud the individuals who’ve had the courage to emerge from the shadows, sharing their stories and shedding light on the mental health problems that plague so many of us.  

I encourage them—and others—to keep these conversations going.

But. BUT. I’d also like to clarify—perhaps even challenge—one of the themes that’s emerging as a result of the push toward mental health disorder acceptance.

“You are not your disease.”

Think about it. How many times have you heard or read that in one form or another?

You are not your depression.

You are not your anxiety.

You are not your eating disorder.

It’s that last one that really strikes a chord with me, although I’ve struggled with my fair share of the other two as well.

Anyone who’s read my past work knows I have a long history with an eating disorder.

Scratch that. “History” is indicative of the past, and mental health issues—even those you “recover” from—are never completely in your past.

You see, sicknesses—like depression and eating disorders—change you. Permanently.

They mark you.  For life.

They leave scars: Some figurative, and some literal. Some physical, and some emotional. Some that still have a tendency to jolt you awake in the night, rousing you with a sharp, sudden twinge of pain; and some that leave you with a dull, lingering ache—like a torn muscle that’s repaired itself, but remains stiff and sore from the growth of new tissue.

Some that will never heal, and some that slowly numb with the passage of time.

Some that make you feel weak, and some that make you feel like a warrior.

Some visible, and some not.

But as someone who bears these kinds of scars, let me assure you of this: Even if you—or others—can’t see them, I know they’re there: carved into my mind, stitched into my heart, spanning my very soul.

So, no, as many others have affirmed, I am NOT my disease.

I am NOT my eating disorder.

But it is a part of me.

It’s the part that makes me push beyond my physical limitations. I’m a runner, and some days, it’s the broken part of my soul that motivates me to keep moving. It’s the brokenness that fuels my determination, that help me focus, that makes me feel strong.

Odd, I know, how the very thing that once starved my body now fuels my soul; but my eating disorder reminds me of weakness, and that drives me toward strength. I know what it is to live in a body so emaciated it can barely function, and because I remember that feeling, I now revel in its renowned power.

I take pride in the swell of my leg muscles as they continue to carry me forward. 

It’s the part that ensures my children are cared for, even when I’m exhausted. I am all too familiar with the abyss a person can fall into when not properly nourished—either physically or spiritually—and I refuse to watch my children fall into that black hole of self-destruction.

So even when I’m frustrated, or tired, or battling my own personal demons, I make sure my boys are well-fed. I make sure they know they are loved. I make sure they are aware that they are always, always ENOUGH.

It’s the part that inspires me to write, to connect to others through my words. I can’t stand the thought of others suffering the way I once did, the way I sometimes still do.

It’s the part that makes every laugh, every smile, every tiny personal victory, a little brighter. It’s a matter of perception: light always looks more radiant in the presence of darkness. 

It’s the part that gives me perspective. I can see now that memories, not calories, are what count.

It’s the part that makes every bite of cake, every spoonful of peanut butter, and every finger-lick of cream cheese taste SO FREAKING GOOD. How—HOW—did I ever live without this stuff?

It’s the part that reminds me to cherish every moment of this life (no matter how corny that sounds). Because it brought me so close to the brink of losing it.

It’s the part that makes me irrevocably, uniquely ME. It’s a part of my past, a part of my story, a part of who I’ve grown to be.

In an ironic way, my eating disorder has given me substance. Its scars fill my soul with joy by reminding me of the misery that accompanies emptiness (both literally and figuratively speaking).

Sometimes, I like to think of myself as an Easter egg. (My boys are obsessed with Easter eggs, even as we approach Christmas). A fresh egg is fragile. Its shell is prone to crack, and if it does, everything inside of it—what makes it an egg—leaks out.

But when you boil an egg—when you expose it to heat and stress, when you push it to its breaking point—you give it substance. You make it tough. Then, even if its shell cracks a bit, the inside remains unchanged. It is solid. It is resilient.

And it has the potential to be any color you choose it to be.

I am not a disease. I am no more a disease than I am a number on a scale (something it has taken me a long time to acknowledge and accept).

But I have been changed by one, and I am all the more beautiful for it.

Five Bullshit Ways to Get Your Toddlers to Sleep Longer

My boys have some sort of twisted, personal vendetta against the joy that is sleep, and I don’t know how to rid them of it.

It started a few weeks ago, when daylight savings time screwed all parents over took effect. Instead of reveling in that extra hour of sleep they’d theoretically gained (as any reasonable human being would), my apparently-part-vampire toddlers started waking up a full TWO HOURS earlier than usual.

I’ve tried everything to get them back on schedule, from suggestions I’ve found online, to ideas concocted by my own chronically sleep-deprived mind.

I even dedicated part of my weekly spiritual devotion to fixing the problem. You know you’ve hit a low point when you find yourself sitting in church on a Sunday morning, imploring the Lord to make your kids sleep through the 6 AM Saturday airing of Thomas and Friends just ONCE this month. (I hate those creepy-ass locomotives; trains should not have faces.)

The boys? Well, they passed our time in church tugging on my bra straps, poking the visible bags beneath my eyes, and running literal circles around the narthex (much to the annoyance of a particularly uptight-looking fellow toddler-mama, who was sitting on a bench with her own young boy, his hands folded neatly in his lap, not a peep escaping his perfectly-pursed-together lips)*.

*Side note: If loud, energetic kids annoy you, and your own kid is perfectly well-behaved during mass, SIT IN CHURCH WITH THE REST OF THE CONGREGATION. Jesus said, "Let the little children come to me." And I'm no Bible expert, but I don't recall any mention of him mumbling, "BUT SHUT THEM THE HELL UP FIRST" under his breath.

Unfortunately—albeit, not surprisingly—my prayers for delayed morning-risings have gone unanswered.

If you’re like me, and you’re desperate to get your toddlers to sleep in longer, do yourself a favor: Stop trying. Toddlers are illogical by nature, and attempting to utilize any sort of rationality when dealing with their behavior will only drive you further down the road to Crazy Town.

Here are five logical (and, thus, ineffective) ways to get your toddlers to sleep longer:

1. Don’t allow them to nap during the day. 

It’s simple math. The less sleep kids get during the day, the more they’ll need at night, right? WRONG.

Allow me to illustrate my point. Think of your kids’ sleep requirements in terms of a modern story problem (since child sleeping patterns make about as much sense as that common core math bullshit anyway):

Question 1: Billy needs a total of 12 hours of sleep in a 24 hour period, or he becomes a cranky little A-hole. Suppose Mom allows him to nap for exactly ZERO hours during the day. If she puts him to bed at 8 PM, what time should he wake up in the morning so as NOT to be a cranky little A-hole?

Answer: 8 AM

Question 2: What time will he ACTUALLY wake up?

Answer: 5 AM

Explain your reasoning: THERE IS NO REASONING THIS IS BULLSHIT

2. Keep your kids’ rooms dark. 

The idea here is that if it looks like nighttime, your kids will act like it’s nighttime, i.e., when their little peepers pop open at 5 AM to total blackness, they will reasonably determine that it’s not yet morning, and thus not time to get up yet.

HAHAHAHA. “Kids…reasonably determine”: I can’t even type that oxymoronic bullshit with a straight face.

If my kids thought darkness = sleepy time, they wouldn’t conk out in their car seats on the reg—sunlight beaming through the windows into their tiny, defiant faces—only to wake up kicking and screaming five minutes later when I try to move them to their dimly lit bedrooms.

3. Take them to the playground to tucker them out. 

Fresh air, exercise, the thrill of chasing other kids around an open area: What kid wouldn’t be tempted to sleep in after a long afternoon of monkey bar swinging, rock wall climbing, and random giant-bug-contraption bouncing (see photos, below)?

Your kid. Your kid wouldn’t. Neither would my kid. Or any kid, for that matter. Playgrounds only seem to invigorate children, and the only “tiring” that takes place involves the little pieces of rubber being plucked off the ground and chucked at one another.

Oh, Mama, you think this is going to wear me out?

You poor, naive, fool of a woman.

Giant ladybugs are to me what Starbucks is to you.

AND CHECK OUT MY BROTHER ON THE GIANT BEE OVER THERE!

Yup, definitely "BUZZED."

Not only does this fail to make my kids sleep in, but I think it actually causes them to wake up earlier by giving them something to look forward to the next day. It’s not uncommon for me to wake up at 4 AM to tiny toddler fists pounding on my door, demanding to go back and bounce on the giant ladybug "RIGHT NOW."

4. Set an alarm/timer/nightlight/etc. to go off at the desired wake-up hour. 

In theory, this is supposed to serve as an indication to your kids that it is okay to get out of bed.

In practice, this gives your kids another loud toy to play with when they wake up at the ass crack o’ dawn.

5. If your kids wake up early, explain to them that it’s still “nighttime,” and gently tuck them back into bed. 

Okay, let’s be real: If you think that’s going to work, your own sleep deprivation is clearly beginning to affect your cognitive functioning.

You should probably just pour yourself a glass of wine cup of coffee, put on PBS, and pray those little monsters agree to put their clothes back on before you take them out in public, despite their insistence that “Daniel Tiger doesn’t have to wear pants.”

So far, the only way I’ve managed to successfully get my kids to sleep in longer in the morning involves exposing them to germs when their immune systems are compromised. This works, not because they sleep more when they’re sick (in fact, it seems their miniscule bodies go into defense mode, creating a surplus of energy that manifests as extra bed-bouncing), but because it gives me a justified excuse to pump them with Children’s Nyquil.*

And I’ll gladly take a little extra snottiness from my kids if it buys me a few more hours of shuteye in the morning.

*I don’t actually do this. I usually just take a cool washcloth and stuff it in their mouths lovingly drape it across their foreheads, like any good mom would. 

Why I Can’t Write About What Happened in Paris

Our hearts are with Paris.

Prayers for Paris.

#PorteOuverte

We’ve all heard about it by now, and still, I can’t write the words.

I can’t write them because I can’t find them. They’re lost, floating around somewhere in a sea of sorrow and disbelief.

Words are my currency, my vessels of expression. I’m a writer. It’s what I do. It’s what I know. It’s how I communicate.

But I can’t write about what happened in Paris.

I can’t write about it because I can’t understand it. I can’t write about it because it doesn’t compute. I can’t write about it because it’s unfathomable.

How do you put words to something so senseless? It’s like trying to write about an alien planet in a galaxy that’s just been discovered, where the creatures that inhabit its unfamiliar surface are surrounded by an atmosphere of toxicity, one that my human body doesn’t recognize. One I couldn’t survive in.

It’s like trying to write in a foreign language, one I’ve never learned to speak, one that doesn’t register when I hear it verbalized.

It’s like trying to write about something so immeasurably horrendous, that the mere effort of putting it into words is too painful, and my mind puts up a defense barrier that won’t allow me to go there.

*

Do you know what I was doing when the first news reports started coming in? Frosting cookies. I was frosting car-shaped gingerbread cookies for my twin boys’ third birthday party, while they bounced on the couch in their mismatched jammies as my husband read them bedtime stories.

It’s surreal, isn’t it?

As we began hearing more and more details, my husband set the storybook down on his lap and looked up at me.

“Isn’t it crazy?” he asked, my toddlers still bouncing on the couch cushions, blissfully ignorant of the evil that goes on in this world. “Isn’t it crazy to think that we’re sitting here, getting the boys ready for bedtime, reading them stories, and there are people out there who think we should die? That there are people out there who would come in here and rape you, and probably kill the boys? That there are people who actually think it’s right to do stuff like that?”

It’s not just crazy. It’s painful.

*

I can’t write about what happened in Paris.

I can’t write about it because its reality, once acknowledged, is incomprehensibly terrifying. Painfully terrifying.

I look at my sweet, perfect boys, and imagine someone wanting to hurt them. The mere thought leaves me breathless, leaves my body so paralyzed with fear and denial that I can’t even shed the tears I feel condensing in the depths of my soul.

They are everything beautiful about this world. They are uninhibited joy. They are unadulterated love.

They are life.

Life: A perplexing word, isn’t it? So small, so concise. So compact. Four little letters that encapsulate so much vibrancy, so many intricacies, so much love and energy.

But that’s my boys: enormous souls housed in tiny bodies.

They are life—souls and hearts manifested corporeally, with the ability to express and communicate and simply be.

They are life, just like I am. Like you are. Like every single victim in last night’s attack was.

Every single one. I can’t tell you how many: how many lives—mothers and fathers and sons and daughters and friends and sisters and brothers—were actually taken last night.

I can’t tell you because I can’t read, watch, or listen to any of the news reports about it.

It hurts too much.

And I still can’t write about it. I can’t write about the innocent lives that were lost, or the not-so-innocent lives that stole them.

I can’t write about the pain. I can’t write about the horror. I can’t write about the irrationality.

What I can do is pray. I can pray for the families of the victims. I can pray for the citizens of Paris. I can pray for the people in this world—those who hurt, and those who do the hurting.

I can pray for peace and change. 

And I can live.

I can be grateful for the life I have—the life I still have.

I can frost birthday cookies and read bedtime stories. I can kiss my husband and hold my boys close to me. I can honor the lives that were lost by celebrating and cherishing the ones that weren’t.

I can’t write about what happened in Paris.

But I can live. I can live with purpose, intention, and gratitude.

And I can let my life do the talking (or the writing) for me.

How to Take a Toddler Trick-or-Treating in 52 Easy Steps

Halloween is almost upon us, folks. As it gets increasingly closer, I've noticed a lot of fellow toddler mamas*  discussing the night's events in the telltale tones of trepidation and—occasionally—downright horror. 

*That is, mamas-of-toddlers, not toddler-aged mamas. Just to be clear. I'm not sure on proper terminology here. Although, these days, WHO FREAKING KNOWS, amirite? Maybe I just gave MTV an idea for their next hit reality show. 

I mean, these ladies sound exhausted just talking about tot-or-treating. Er...trick-or-treating. (Although, if you ask most toddler moms, "tot" and "trick" tend to be interchangeable most of the time. Little rascals always keep you guessing.)

Anyway, I guess I just can't relate to the stress and/or pressure these mamas are apparently under. TRICK-OR-TREATING WITH TODDLERS IS A PIECE OF CAKE! (Mmmm...cake. Why isn't Halloween cake a thing? Don't get me wrong, I love me some Snickers, but I could also really go for some devil's food cake this season. Ha...see what I did there?)

Worried about taking your tots out this October 31st? Worry no more! All you have to do is follow these 52 EASY steps, and you and your little monster will have a grand ol' time!

Part I: Preparation

1. Ask Toddler what he would like to be this year for Halloween.

2. Explain to Toddler that “Hungry” is a feeling, not something he can really dress up as.

3. Get Toddler a Nutri-Grain bar to stop consequent screaming before asking again.

4. Explain to Toddler that “More” isn’t a viable costume option either.

5. Give up on soliciting Toddler’s input.

6. Peruse Pinterest for a creative DIY costume. Little Zephyr Basil’s mom isn’t the only crafty parent on the block. You got this.

7. Click on costume that seems fairly straightforward, involves no sewing, and has the word “easy” in the title.

8. Check Facebook and see that little Zephyr Basil’s mom has already uploaded 124,842 photos of him in a homemade Gandhi costume (made from all natural materials, of course), meditating in his Feng Shui’d bedroom and munching on homemade granola.

9. Throw pack of fruit snacks toward couch, where Toddler is screaming in front of the TV, and compose list of materials required to make “easy” Pinterest costume.

10. Wrestle Toddler into car seat and drive to Walmart. Be sure to bring more fruit snacks for the ten minute drive, or there will be literal wailing and gnashing of teeth.

11. Locate and purchase costume materials*.

*Note: This is an “umbrella” step for the six trillion actual steps involved, which may include: saying “no” to every (toy, book, goldfish, random piece of crap) that Toddler sees at the store; taking multiple potty breaks, none of which will actually involve Toddler peeing or pooping on the toilet; picking up the contents of your purse after Toddler upturns it in Aisle Five; and scouring the parking lot for Blankie when it turns up missing (only to find it stuck in the back of Toddler's pants when you finally give up and return to your vehicle).

12. Don’t forget to grab a couple bags of Halloween candy for Trick-or-Treaters.

13. Drive home, put Toddler back in front of TV, and attempt to make “easy” costume.

14. Easy my flabby, postpartum ass.

15. When it turns out nothing like the picture, bury feelings of inadequacy in the jumbo bag of Snickers you just bought. Don’t let Toddler see you.

16. HAHAHA. Bitch, please: Toddler always knows. Throw a Snickers his way to stop the screaming. Be careful not to *accidentally* hit him in the head with it.

17. Return to Walmart. Bring suckers for the car this time. They last longer than fruit snacks.

18. Hit up the Halloween section and allow Toddler to select outrageously priced, cheaply-made costume.

19. Check out. And remember to get more candy to replace the stuff you inhaled at your costume-fail pity party.

Part II: The Main Event

20. On Halloween, dress Toddler in Walmart costume. When he starts crying because it’s too (hot, itchy, blue, not-Batman), remind him that HE’s the one who picked it out.

21. Attempt to take picture of Toddler.

22. Send pic of the back of Toddler’s head to everyone on your contact list on your way out the door.

23. When Toddler gets tired of walking after approximately two minutes, pick him up and carry him door-to-freaking-door like a haggard, overgrown Girl Scout hauling around a carton of Tagalongs.

24. Remove Toddler’s (cape, monkey ears, wig, eyepatch) because it’s too (hot, itchy, blue, not-a-Batman-mask).

25. Approach house and allow Toddler to ring doorbell.

26. Tell Toddler to stop ringing doorbell.

27. Tell Toddler to stop crying just because he can’t keep ringing doorbell.

28. Try to get Toddler to say “Trick-or-Treat” when masked stranger opens door.

29. Who the actual f**k dresses up like a demented clown while handing out candy to little kids?

Oh, right. Daddy. Daddy does.

Way to go, Daddy.

30. Say “Trick-or-Treat” for Toddler while he cries and screams into your shoulder.

31. When Bozo the Toddler-Traumatizer reaches into candy bowl for an Airhead, tell him that Toddler is allergic to red dye 40…

32. …but really loves Snickers.

33. Try to get Toddler to say “Thank you.”

34. When Toddler starts whining for the “big red candy,” say “Thank you” for him and walk away. Quickly.

35. Point out little Zephyr Basil across the street, in all his miniature Gandhi glory, and use Toddler’s momentary distraction to scarf down Snickers bar. You need the energy more than he does right now.

36. Continue to lug 35lbs of squirmy Toddler—plus awkwardly shaped pumpkin pail—past five houses with unlit porch lights.

37. Stingy bastards.

38. When you finally find a house giving out candy, haul Toddler up driveway resembling Olympic ski jump.

39. Repeat steps #25 – 38 for the next 90 minutes.

Part III: The Spoils of Victory

40. At home, dump Toddler’s candy on kitchen counter for inspection.

41. Repeatedly pull pants up while Toddler tugs at them, begging for candy.

42. Once you’ve deemed candy safe, allow Toddler just two pieces before bedtime.

43. *Incoherent wailing*

44. Attempt to brush caramel and cement-like taffy from Toddler’s gnashing teeth.

45. Wrangle Toddler into pajamas, shove tuck him into bed, and listen to screams of “More candy!” until he passes out.

46. Contemplate ways a serial-child-killer might open a candy wrapper, lace its contents with rat poison, and seamlessly repackage it.

47. Go check on Toddler.

48. Once assured that Toddler is indeed breathing, pour a glass of wine and raid pumpkin pail for any remaining Snickers bars.

49. Plop on couch, turn on TV, and try to relax.

50. Watch breaking story about poisoned Halloween candy.

51. Neurotically repeat step #47 for the rest of the night.

52. Wake up the next morning to Toddler’s screams for “more candy” and your hair glued to the couch upholstery with caramel.

Happy Halloween, from all of us at Between the Monkey Bars!

Also, if you like what you read, do a Mama blogger a solid and consider sharing!*

*Or I will intentionally deprive my toddlers of sugar, hunt you down, and tell them you have tons of chocolate in your pockets.**

**I won't really do this.