Guess who’s back…Back again…


If there are two things I love they are sugar and Trader Joe’s impenitent attitude towards knockoffs.  (These things aren’t even that delicious, but I could easily eat 1500 calories of them within an hour.  And sometimes I do.  Accidentally.  Like today.)

…which in no way segues into bringing the blog back to life!  Welcome back friends!  It feels good to be here.

It’s been a rough few years for Rambulatory, there were periods of time where I seriously considered abandoning it altogether.  But I think we may be on the upswing.  So for those die hard fans out there (hi mom and dad!), hold on to your butts.

Basic updates:

Threenager with lots of unsolicited opinions:


…and climbing:file_000-5

Not as hilarious as he seems to think it is.

This is largely why things have been quiet.  Similar to my Target trips, I don’t know how many updates like this any given person wants to hear.  But we’re going to give it a shot.

We all (surprise!) got sick last week, and I’m still fighting to breathe through my nose, but still on for the race this weekend.  My running has been inconsistent if nothing else.  So that should be pretty.  Good news is it’s a.) not the full marathon, and b.) my aunt and friend will be joining me (my friend actually doing the full…because I told her I was doing it and then bailed…because apparently that’s the kind of friend I am) on the run!  Misery loves company–I mean strength in numbers.


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…and we’re back!  You know how it goes.  Kids come back, life gets busy, your bathroom floor is always covered in piles of toilet paper…

Time for a quick review of the Road to the Ventura Marathon:

  1. The week before I signed up for the marathon I had a series of really solid runs, including a 9 mile run with the stroller where I CRUSHED IT.  I decided I needed to sign up for another marathon immediately to try to qualify for Boston.  Because I was SO READY.
  2. Registered for Ventura two days later.
  3. The day after registering went for an easy 8 mile run and my knee blew up.  Hasn’t happened in years.  Had to walk the last mile.
  4. Decided it was because my shoes were old (they were).  Got new shoes and took a few days off to let it recover for a little bit.
  5. It didn’t.
  6. After 6 weeks of going through that cycle and not seeing improvement, I contacted the race director and asked if I could downgrade to the half.  He said yes.

And just like that, in the spirit of race-bailing that has dominated the past three years of my life, marathon #2 is out.  Wah wah.

But we still have the half, so it’s something.




So this happened yesterday.

They’re both in Kentucky for 2 weeks.  TWO. WEEKS.

Yesterday was a hectic morning.  I drove to work for 3 hours, drove home, loaded kids and in-laws into the car, dropped them off at LAX, ran back to work, met with two more clients, then my final client canceled last second.

And suddenly, after what has felt like months of running around like a maniac…

I was free.

And I had no idea what to do.

The walk to the car:

“I should go shopping!  No, I should go home first and take inventory and then go shopping.  Wait, no, no rush for food because we don’t have to pack lunches tomorrow.  I can read that book I’ve been wanting to read for 4 years!  No, I should take a nap! No, I should go for a bike ride, I can never do that when I have the kids.  I should bike ride to the library!!  No, I should be productive now, then I can nap later.  I should clean.  No, I should relax.”

And round and round we go.  It was like my brain couldn’t process anything.  Hopefully the next few days of decision making for myself will be less anxiety-producing.



A few days ago as a gesture of gratitude for holding down the fort, and because he loves me, Paul brought me a homemade red velvet cupcake with a big dollop of some sort of cream cheese frosting on top, from the resident lounge.

“Something special,” he said. “Just for you.”

As he walked up the stairs with it, HH saw it, took it from him and carried it over, holding it up to me yelling,  “MAAAAAAAAHM!  DADDY BROUGHT YOU A CUPCAKE!”

I bent down and took it from her.

“That is so nice of you to bring that to me, HH!  So helpful.  Thank you.”

She looked up at me, expectantly.

“I want to stick my finger in it.”

I told her I’d cut it in half and we could share.

I got a plate, cut it in half, and we sat down at the table.  She picked up one of the halves and shoved the entire thing into her mouth.   I picked up one crumb that she had dropped and ate it, causing her to freeze mid-chew and look up at me with total suspicion.  Then I reached to pick up the second half.

She grabbed the plate and pulled it into her chest, cheeks stuffed, red dye smeared across her face, glaring at me, poised for freakout.

I looked at her.  “HH…we’re sharing.  That half is mine.  In fact, the whole thing is mine, I was sharing with you.”

Paul joined in: “That is Mom’s cupcake, she was nice to share it with you.  It’s not yours.  Give it back.”

Cue: freakout.

Wailing, sobbing, and with her mouth wide open and chewed food flying everywhere, she promptly dropped the other half of the cupcake on the ground. Frosting down.

E, who had been hanging out in the vicinity waiting for something exactly like this to happen, speed-crawled over, and puked on it.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the mothers out there.  I hope you all got something special.  Just for you.



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I don’t do crafts.  But a few weeks before Christmas I decided I was going to.   Because that’s what good parents do during the holidays.  Paul was working nights, so I was flying solo on this.

Wednesday: On a trip to Target (duh) I decide baking cookies will be the perfect thing to get in the holiday spirit.  I like baking, and I’m good at it.  Sometimes.

Friday: After two days of the ingredients sitting on the counter, I decide to skip including my two year old in the dough-making process.  It’s not like this is a life skill she HAS to learn.  I make the dough on my own so it’s ready when she gets home from preschool.  She comes home from school in meltdown mode.  I make the executive decision to delay cookie making.

Monday: 3/4 of the dough still sitting in fridge.  The other 1/4 I ate over the weekend.

Wednesday:  A week later.  This is the day we will bake! HH has been having night terrors and sleep-walking when she goes to bed after 7:15 (fun), so we rush through dinner and have just enough time to get the dough out, roll it, cookie cutter some shapes (which she is way less into than I thought she would be), and throw them in the oven.  No time to decorate.  No time to admire the finished product.  I put the cookies in a tupperware after she goes to bed, keep frosting ingredients in the fridge.

Friday: Half of the cookies are gone because I ate them.  Sans-frosting.

Sunday: Facetime with Nana and Opa.  When I suggest HH show them the cookies she baked, she accidentally breaks an arm off of a star of Bethlehem.  I tell her it’s OK to eat it.  She looks at me confused, then suddenly the realization creeps across her face…these are edible! And not only can she eat the piece that broke off, she can eat the whole cookie.  And she does so.  From then on, every time she walks into the kitchen: “Cookie?”

Monday: Now that there are only 5 week-old cookies left in the tupperware, time to decorate!  I get out all the decorating icings and frostings.  HH smears green frosting on half of one cookie and goes, “I eat it now.”  I explain that no, decorating cookies is SO FUN, we can eat them when they’re decorated, and don’t gingerbread men look better with a face? and they taste better with frosting anyway.  “NO!  NO FROSTING!!  I EAT THE COOKIES NOW!”

So I take them away.  Tears.  Screams. Faux seizures. Drama.

The cream cheese I got to make special frosting is still sitting in the fridge.

Holiday crafts are the best.



Me: That isn’t how you ask, you can be nicer.
Paul: Should we give her milk or maybe some I-C-E-C-R-E-A-M?
Me: I really don’t think she needs–


Paul: How does she know that????
Me: I have no idea.
Paul: She is so smart!!!  HH, how do you spell ice cream?
HH: (confidently) One, two.

Back for the Holidays

…and we’re back, by popular demand.

The past few months have been this:


HH: Ariel’s eyes are BLUE!
Me: They are! What color are Mom’s eyes?
HH: Uuuuh…red!!
Me: Red?!??!  No…
HH: Oh…umm…pink?

I’ve also been spending an offensive amount of time in Target shopping for Desitin.

For these reasons, not only has putting a sentence together become a serious struggle, I have I felt as though I am lacking decent content (as opposed to before, when this forum only covered important, pressing issues).

But due to an aggressive campaign by this blog’s devoted followers (my sister) and their insistence that my content is NEVER boring, THAT ENDS TODAY!

So today we’ll be talking about…my most recent trip to Target.


Now that it’s officially hat weather (56 degrees at 4:45am), it’s time to talk about the holidays.

For the past 32 years a nutcracker named Mr. Teeth has adorned the hearth at my parent’s house during the holidays.  Back in Mr. Teeth’s day, he probably looked like every other nutcracker:


Today, Mr. Teeth has no feet, no hair, one eye, and if you touch him the wrong way his arms fall off.  We love him all the same.

So imagine my delight when yesterday at Target, while in search of frozen peas, I came across a huge display of nutcrackers.


(This is Target’s MO…you go looking for peas and somehow end up in the nutcracker aisle.  It’s incredibly effective.)

Nutcrackers of all different shapes and colors and species and genders and professions.  So I decided to let HH pick out her own Mr. Teeth.

In addition to a girl nutcracker wearing a “beautiful dress” that resembles Elsa (go figure) but has a lever that opens up a hole in her chest à la Alien as opposed to her mouth, guess which one she chose:


Mr. Pink Sparkle 2015 Nutcracker, complete with beard, staff, and soldier’s helmet. Breaking down gender norms, one Christmas decoration at a time.

This guy will have a home on our hearth for many years to come.



…and we’re back.

Little Eazy-E was a champ on the flight home.


If anyone looks like he could use some help it’s Dad.

HH will not let him go, to the point that it’s kind of an issue.  He can’t be in the room without her wanting to feed him or hug him or put a blanket on him or honk his nose.  But better that than the alternative.  She is honestly so happy to have her brother here.


Not sure if the feeling is reciprocated.  (And her hair.  Seriously.)

Paul is already back at work, and we’re just adjusting to life with a +1.  More to come later.


Another kind of two


On Monday we flew up to Oregon and made the drive from Portland to Bend.  And on Friday, after two days in the hospital, we left with this guy.


Due to some scheduling snafus, we spent a few days hanging out in Bend before the birth.


It could have been worse.  Bend is full of trails and microbreweries.  When things got particularly stressful, I walked out our front door and went for a run…


…then drank a beer.  Like I said, could have been worse.

Now we are hanging out in Oregon, waiting for all the paperwork to be processed so we can cross state lines and bring our newest edition home to meet our oldest addition.


I am really looking forward to it.  Like, seriously.

The adoption was a journey, and we are very excited to get home.  More on that later. But in the meantime, we’re going to go for walks, enjoy some brews, and spend some QT together before we become a chaotic clan of four.


…I mean five.  Depending on how you count.


Morning DooDoo


Paul was home this weekend.  And life got like 4 bijillion times better.

I know correlation doesn’t always imply causality, but this weekend I became sane and HH slept through the night.  So that was miraculous and glorious.  It was also the first lazy weekend morning I’ve had in forever…even though we were up riding our trikes at 7am.

Paul also downloaded a free doodling iPad app for HH called DooDoo Lite, and spent the whole weekend talking to HH about making doodoos. But I actually got to spend some time BY MYSELF and finished Season 5 of the Good Wife, so he could have been teaching her how to juggle knives, I didn’t care.

Now it’s Monday, back at the grind.  But I feel rejuvenated and ready to tackle whatever comes at me.  Even this.


I wasn’t totally wrong.  Sometimes you do just have to hang in there a little longer.