Day 6: The Words No Mother Wants to Hear

One night the three of us were out at a restaurant for dinner. I had my usual bag of tricks, entertaining our toddler before our dinners arrived. He was struggling to open a toy, so I naturally reached across the table to help him.

He immediately pulled the toy away from my reach.

"No, Mommy," he said. "I don't need you."

And my heart broke a little bit.

How could this little boy – my baby – not need me? 

Please stop growing up.

Growing up an only child, independence came naturally to me. 

I would entertain myself for hours playing with Barbies or Cabbage Patch dolls. I could spend an entire afternoon drawing and writing in notebooks in my room. And by the age of 8, I could hang with the adult set with the grace of a college graduate.

Now that I'm raising an only child, I'm watching this little person come into his own. And each and every day, I'm in awe of something new that he does or says.

He wants to take off his pajamas on his own. He wants to dress himself. He wants to strap himself into his car seat. And all of this is awesome, if we had 6 hours to get ready in the morning and leave the house.

I understand that he needed to grow and learn, but selfishly, I wanted to freeze time to these moments when my little boy wanted his Mommy.

I want him to never stop asking for me to wake him up in the morning, when we play our little game where I cover him in stuffed animals and pretend to look for him. 

I want him to always answer the question "Who's your best friend?", with "Mommy".

I want my toddler, who will pretty soon be too big for me to lift, to still want me to carry him, so he can wrap his body around me like a little spider monkey and bury his face in my neck.

I don't know if I can handle it if he doesn't need me anymore.

Because I still need him.

Day 5: Ok, Target, Just TAKE My Money

It's no secret I LOVE Target.

You'll find me there right when the store opens, Starbucks in hand, browsing the aisles and uncovering amazing finds. Sometimes my toddler is in tow, having been a Target shopper since he was 3 weeks old.

It doesn't matter how long I'm in the store - 20 minutes or 2 hours - I can't escape this place for under $200 $100.

And then Target goes and announces they're partnering with Chip and Joanna Gaines of Fixer Upper fame for an exclusive line of home items.

My favorite store + my favorite show = RedCard trouble.

I remember when Target partnered with Lily Pulitzer for the exclusive clothing and home goods line and it was total mayhem. Women camped out at the store overnight to be first in line for the pink and green creations. Target's website crashed and things were sold out faster than you could refresh your browser.

And was there ever hype about the launch of this line. Social media madness, everywhere I looked.

I wanted to go and be there on the morning the line launched. However, I was NOT standing in line. Plus, it was daylight savings day, which always screws up little kid's sleeping habit (though in the case of our toddler, he slept later instead of waking up earlier).

Then it started raining, and the thought of getting to Target during prime weekend shopping times on the day of a new line launching that was created by TV stars was less than desirable.

I swear, I wasn't going to go.

Until I had this conversation with my Little Mister:

ME: "Where do you want to go today?"

LM: "Let's go to Target!"

I swear, this was completely unprompted. But if my son wanted to go to Target, then we sure as hell were going to Target.

And not only was Target not that crowded, but they had many of the Hearth & Hand items in stock and on display. 

I shivered with excitement.

"Is Lightning McQueen here?" LM asked me.

"Not here. But Chip and Joanna are," I told him, running my hands along the curve of a large vase.

"I don't want them, I want Lightning!" Seemed I would be speed shopping this collection today.

Oooh look at that metal "Letters for Santa" mailbox, which I would love for our holiday decor. The pitchers were beautiful, too, but if I brought one more kitchen item into the house I think Mr. KK would kill me. Did I mention the wreaths? Or how about the little decorative houses?

"Let's go see Lightning!" LM demanded, waking me from my daydream of redecorating my entire house.

I quickly picked out a few candles that were the right shade of gray with a yummy scent, looking wistfully over my shoulder as we headed off to the toy section.

Until we meet again, my pretties. Which very well may be online, right after I hit "Publish".

Day 4: I'm a Beer Snob #sorrynotsorry

The day I started drinking "good" beer, was probably one of the best days in Mr. KK's life (right behind our wedding day, the birth of our son and the annual release of KBS).

In college, I drank beer: Molson Ice, Natty Light and Ice House. Post-college party days in Boston with my roommates were filled with Bud Light – Corona if it was pay week – and Harpoon on the special occasion we visited the brewery.

Mr. KK, who drank crappy beer in college like the rest of us, jumped on the craft beer wagon early on. I admit, I was intrigued by craft beer. Having a creative brain like I do, I was drawn to the well-designed labels and kitchy names.

"I think the coolest job ever would be to write beer names," I said to Mr. KK. It was 2010, before the true craft beer boom hit, and I was scanning the beers in our fridge: Heavy Seas Loose Cannon, River Horse Hop-a-lotamus, Firestone Double Jack.

"It's cooler to drink them," he replied. "Please. Just taste it." He poured a cloudy IPA into 2 glasses. We clinked. And I haven't looked back since.

I LOVED IPAs. The hoppier, the better. Unfiltered and cloudy? Oh, yeah. Bright and citrusy? Hells yes.

And, like Dr. Frankenstein, Mr. KK quickly created a monster. 

I wanted to try every IPA I could find. I scoured shelves for new beers. Made pilgrimages for hard-to-find limited releases. I bought tickets to local beer fests. We planned vacations around which breweries we could visit. We joined the mug club at our neighborhood beer bar.

As the years went on, more craft breweries popped up, the competition got fierce. Each new beer pushed the limits on hoppiness and taste. So many beers were good, you had to be GREAT to stand out. Eventually, the best beers were the ones you couldn't get in stores (or, at least, it was near impossible to find them). 

And as quickly as I tried a new beer and loved it, I grew tired of it and moved onto another. Pliny the Elder was tasty, but then I had Heady Topper. That was soon replaced by Sip of Sunshine. And then Bissell Brothers Substance. And finally – and most recently – the deliciousness known as Trillium...any of their Double IPAs.

When I was traveling for my job, I found myself in Charlotte quite a bit. Talk about a city with a great beer scene. Soon, my friend and I began smuggling (legally) beer to each other. I was officially a beer mule. And I secretly loved it.

Good beer comes with a good amount of calories, so I will only have 1 or 2 when I'm drinking. Plus, the high ABV keeps my beer count down, too. I won't "waste" any calories on "bad beer" – aka: all the stuff I used to drink.

So, Mr. KK, you now have a partner in IPA crimes, who makes finding hard-to-get beers her mission, and who turns her nose up at mainstream beer.

I hope you're happy.

I sure am.

Day 3: Eating Out With Toddlers. And Living to Tell About It.

Every so often I see an article pop up in my social media news feeds about a certain restaurant taking a stand and banning kids from eating at their establishment.

As someone who loves to eat out, who also owns a kid, I find this really hard to accept. Banning kids from restaurants? What's next? Telling the elderly they can only eat at your establishment between certain hours?

I LOVE going to restaurants. Since Mr. KK and I got together, discovering new places to eat and drink has always been our thing. 

And then we had a baby.

And you know what happened?

We still went out to eat.

How? Because we raised a restaurant baby.

Our Little Mister (LM for short) made his first sojourn to a restaurant for lunch when we he was 3 weeks old. (Unless, of course, you count the lunch pit stop at the McDonald's outside of Andrews Air Force Base on our drive home from the hospital when he was 4 days old.)

A few years ago during NaBloPoMo, I wrote a post about bringing a baby to a restaurant. 

Now, two years later, here's an update with 15 steps of eating at a restaurant...the Toddler Edition.

1. Get excited over the fact that you're going out to eat. The set the bar for the evening really, really low.

2. Location, location, location. Find a neighborhood joint and make it your own. People who see you often are more likely to seat you quickly/accept your toddler/have pity on your with free drinks.

3. Pick a place with a decent noise level. It will help mask those lovely moments when your Toddler is "expressing himself".

4. Have a bag of tricks that won't quit. Bag should include – but not be limited to – snacks, stickers, crayons and coloring book, random rubber bands and paper clips, an iPad, a change of clothes, wet wipes, gum wrappers and miniature toys.

5. Order your adult beverage the minute you sit down. You may only have 10 minutes in which to drink it. If you can call and order your cocktail ahead, you should.

6. Embrace the high chair. At home your Toddler sits on a regular chair? Awesome. At school, he sits independently? That's cool. In a restaurant, where you want 7 minutes to eat your dinner without your child up and abandoning the table? Strap that kid in a high chair. Our motto: if he fits, he sits (strapped in).

7. Accept the fact that your toddler's dinner will be a carb fest. Order the grilled cheese and french fries, and ask them the bring the bread basket. Give him double veggies tomorrow.

8. Channel your inner Boy Scout and be prepared. Read the menu online, and know what you're going to order. Calculate the timing so that there is always food on the table.

9. Make sh*t up. One day at breakfast, our food was taking an crazy long time to come out, so I improvised the old 'shell game', and hid a straw wrapper under one of three creamer containers and had LM guess where it was.

10. Play the "it's still too hot to eat" game. One time, a grilled cheese needed to cool for twenty minutes before we could eat it, which allowed Mommy and Daddy to finish their appetizer and have their entrees arrive.

11. Recognize the meltdown before it happens. You know that hitch in their voice just before they are going to lose it, better than anyone else. Deploy master skills when a tantrum is on the horizon: Detect. Distract. Deflect.

12. Pretend it's no big deal. Toddlers are smart, in that they are learning to sense the situations in which you want them to behave. And then the do the opposite. When LM acts out loudly in a public place, I simple turn my head and start talking to Mr. KK. LM calls my name incessantly for two minutes, then finds something with which to busy himself. We drink and relax, he entertains himself. Win-win.

13. Don't be above the electronic babysitter. Just put the iPad on and enjoy your dinner. People may judge you, but they'd do worse if your toddler was screaming and ruining their dinner.

14. Be ready for the haters. Because you'll encounter them eventually. The dirty looks, the whispers under their breath, the requests to be seated at tables far away from you. Don't take it personally. Some people are just assholes.

15. Just let it go. He's going to yell. There will be food on the floor. People will look at you. Who cares? YOU are eating at a restaurant. 

But perhaps the best part about eating early with a Toddler, is that once they are in bed, you can enjoy cocktail hour part 2.

Cheers!

Day 2: A Love Letter to Our Dining Room Table

Dear Dining Room Table,

I remember the day we bought you, all those years ago in Pottery Barn.

Your curvy legs, sleek top, and black distressed finish immediately drew us in. But what we loved most about you was that where every other dining room table was rectangular, you were square. You sat 8 comfortably closed, but then opened up with not one, but TWO inserts, to proudly sit 12 lucky dinner guests. 

You were so special that we forwent the regular old chairs that "matched" your style, and instead, went rogue with sueded, velvet chairs (from a competitive retailer, no less) because you were unique, and your chairs should be, too.

There's was nothing we loved more than to dress you up for parties and holidays. 

We soon learned that what we loved most about you – your square shape – was also your Achilles heel: it was nearly impossible to find table cloths that fit you perfectly. But being the improviser that I am, I improvised a solution: I discovered I could cover your 60-inch square frame with decorative shower curtains, whose 72"x72" sizing draped perfectly across your glossy top, with just enough material hanging down over the sides.

Voila! 

We celebrated many great years together, and when we moved, you transitioned beautifully, sliding right into an open-concept floor plan and your new home. You were ready, once again, to be the focal point at parties.

But then, our relationship changed.

We had a baby.

Soon, your beautiful, seasonal runners were replaced with tablecloths that were never removed.

Your artfully created centerpieces of candles, gourds and floral arrangements were pushed to the side, or moved off of you entirely.

Our Kate Spade China was replaced with Sophie the Giraffe.

Linen napkins were a distant memory as muslin burp cloths materialized.

Wine glasses were replaced with...well, who are we kidding? We didn't give up wine.

And as our little got older, the memories of the times we spent together faded even more. Until I never saw your naked glossy top again. You were constantly covered in stuffed animals, blocks and books.

Just a normal meal, with 25 cars staring at us.

Then our little toddler discovered Cars, and you were transformed from a table that once hosted dinner parties to a race track for cars, trucks and tractors of all sizes. As he would press the cars down and scoot them around your perimeter, I could almost hear them making grooves in your beautiful wood.

But this is your life now, and I hope you love it as much as we do.

Yes, that's a shower curtain-turned-tablecloth right there, folks.
And a Fall centerpiece hanging on by a thread.

And don't worry, I promise to clear you off every now and then, and restore you to all of your entertaining glory.

Love,
the kk's

Day 1: Saying good-bye to Vito the Wonderdog

When I was nine, I had a dog for 3 weeks.

Her name was Pepper, and my grandparents – against their better judgment – brought her over to our house without checking with my parents if they wanted to add an animal to our family.

My parents were good sports about it (well, in front of me they were), and they let me keep Pepper.

Unfortunately, Pepper's life with us was short-lived. In three short weeks she peed rivers on our kitchen floor at night, ripped my mother's living room drapes down from the rod, and – in what I can only describe as a cry for help – ate through a sheet-rocked wall while we were out.

Bye-bye, Pepper.

It wasn't until my late twenties that I became a Dog Mom. We rescued a dog from a shelter when he was still a puppy. He was in a pen outside, and the minute I spotted him, I stood protectively at the fence. A family with two small kids came over and pointed at my future dog, until I possessively told them, "He's mine. We're adopting him."

And Vito joined our family.

He was kind and gentle, with eyes so expressive it was as if he understood you when you spoke to him. He was patient and well-behaved, you could leave him alone without ever having to worry about anything.

Vito's favorite place to be was on the couch, lying on our laps. He loved us so fiercely and unconditionally; the only thing he wanted was to do was be with us.

Vito was so very much part of our everyday lives – from the specially-built window seat in the living where he could sleep in the sun and watch the squirrels, to planning family vacations at pet-friendly houses so Vito could come with us – that I never imagined life without Vito.

As the years went on, Vito's face grayed with age, he lost his hearing, and eventually had trouble jumping up on the couch. He was getting older, slowing down. But every once in a while he'd chase a chipmunk or play with one of his toys, and we'd get a glimpse of that puppy that we adopted all those years ago.

This past July, we said goodbye to Vito. I don't remember another day in my life when I was so broken hearted. His time had come; he had given us all the love he had.

As we held him, during his last few moments of life, I looked one last time into his soulful eyes, and I swear he understood how much I loved him, how much he meant to us, and I think he even silently thanked us for letting him go.

I still listen to hear the clicking of his nails on our hardwood floors.

When I drop a piece of food on the floor, my immediate thought is, "Oh, Vito will get it."

And when I come home from being out, I still expect Vito to come running around the corner to greet me.

We miss Vito every day. And we are so thankful for the 15+ years that we had together.

He made us better humans, and taught us how to love unconditionally. He truly was a Wonder Dog.

What if I went on strike?

I am the least political person on the planet.

I don’t feed into the President bashing on social media. I avoid heated debates at work. And I didn’t join the women’s march that happened in so many cities after the election.

But today is International Women’s Day, and – more importantly – the “Day Without a Woman Strike”, so I felt it appropriate to dust off my feminist ways and say something.

The significance of today, is that women who are able to remove themselves from work and the economy today should do so. This means: skipping work, not shopping, and leaving household and childcare duties up to the men in their lives.

This is amazing if this happens. Such a powerful statement. 

Does this mean I can just get up from my desk and leave right now??

This got me thinking: my job aside, what would happen if I skipped out on my duties at home? My husband and I take a "sharing is caring" approach to our lives. But there are certain things that are my “jobs”; duties and tasks that I just take care or, or it’s assumed I will just take care of. Same goes for my husband; he has his own unspoken “to do” list that gets us through our daily lives.

So what would happen if we both went on strike. And just for ha-has, our strikes wouldn’t just be for a day, but instead lasted for a whole month.

Our lives would look something like this:

If I went on strike every day for a month:

• Family members and friends would not receive cards or gifts for milestones
• In fact, we’d miss every party, since we would never open the invitation, let alone RSVP
• Laundry would only be done on a “immediate need” basis; meaning, “I immediately need underwear because there are no clean pairs in the drawer"
• My husband would be late for work every day because his “alarm” (aka: ME) didn’t wake him up
• No planned grocery trips and weekly meals = more take out
• WE'D NEVER HAVE PLANS TO LEAVE THE HOUSE

If my husband went on strike every day for a month:

• We’d have 30 days of trash piled up
• We’d live with burnt-out light bulbs all over the house
• We’d never have a warm fire on a cold day
• Max would by stuck at daycare, and we’d be stuck with late pick-up fees
• Dust bunnies would take over our house
• Our lawn, garden and yard would turn into an overgrown jungle
• WE'D RUN OUT OF BEER

I'm proud the women who are standing up for their beliefs, and doing what they can do today.

But for my house, I'd like it very much if we didn't go on strike. Mama needs her suds.