But, I won’t lie. It’s been exhausting not having my more-mature half around.

These boys, they’ll run you ragged. People do it everyday, though, so I won’t complain (anymore).

He left to work early yesterday morning, with me wrapped around his leg crying and pleading with him.

Take me with you. Don’t leave me with them. They are evil.

He shook his leg a few times, flicked me like a bug, and was off.

Then, right on cue, it started pouring rain.

Of course.

Luca was begging to go outside and “check the weather.” I was a total stick in the mud about it for like two minutes, until I remembered how much fun is to play in the rain.

I told them to have at it and the rain dance began.

Initially, Leo was very skeptical of the buckets of water falling from the sky, choosing to observe his big brother a bit before getting his own feet wet.

Then, he slipped and fell on his tiny ass.

And, Luca was all, “Come on, dude. Don’t be such a baby. Man up.”

That’s when I remembered the raincoats and boots we all had.

And when they remembered the bald spot in our yard and were all like sweet, mud!

The sky began to rumble, telling us it was time to head in and give my dog a xanax, her Thunder Shirt, and some boob-pillow time.

I made the boys some train tracks, so they could play with them for two minutes before yelling, “I’m sooooo bored.”

Just as I’d started to think, “Man, this day is going beautifully and who even needs a god damn man anyway?” the universe laughed loudly, waved it’s finger back and forth and said, “Not so fast, oh confident one.”

And, at 0-something-hundred-i-don’t-know-how-the-fuck-to-read-military-time hours, the longest day of my life began.

Trigger warning: If you’re easily offended by plumbing issues, or snail and slug invasions, you might want to skip tomorrow’s post.

Until then…

The post The Longest Day of My Life: Part One appeared first on me and mine.

An hour post-surgery, he was on cloud nine. Which, I’m sure had everything to do with fact that his ears were fluid-free for the first time in a year.

And, three hours post-surgery? The kid was all spunk and mischief.

I’ll let you see for yourself.

*Translation: Peace out, Bibi (his grandmother).

There’s nothing better than that.

Have a wonderful weekend and, as always, thanks for taking the time to read my words.

The post The Difference a Day Makes. appeared first on me and mine.

And, as most of you probably know, the feeling seems to be mutual.

I cross paths with the most random critters on a daily basis.

I’m pretty sure they scribble my name and number across the walls of their tiny animal stalls – For a good time, call Allison!

But, however great my love is, there’s one critter that terrifies me even more than Glenn Beck.

Flying tree cockroaches.

Yes, you heard right…enormous roaches…THAT FLY. It’s like the worst horror movie ever filmed.

This is what they look like:

As paranoid as this sounds, these guys are known for staring straight into your soul and attempting to make you shit your pants by flying at you.

No joke, you guys.

Do a quick Google search on “flying tree roaches houston” and you’ll find stories aplenty on these assholes.

Like this one and that one.

Anyway, the first day the outside temperature reached 80 this year, I was sitting outside drinking with a dear friend.

That’s when I felt the little tickle.

I glanced down, prepared to shoo the pesky fly away. Only the fly wasn’t a fly at all, it was one of Satan’s messengers…crawling up my leg.

I screamed at the top of my lungs and ran around in circles, as it flew in circles around me.

I was in complete panic-mode and had no idea how to handle it. So, I did what anyone would do in this situation: pointed at it and yelled, “FUCK YOU, MOTHERFUCKER.”

(Aside: I suspect my neighbors think my marriage is in trouble, now.)

Then, I started yelling at my friend, Alfredo, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING? KILL IT!”

I scoured the yard looking for a weapon to hand him.

Holding my son’s soccer goal I ran back, only to discover that Alfredo had long since found a weapon of his own.

His shoe.

Oh, right. A shoe. What normal people use to kill a bug.

Thanking my hero-friend, I gently placed the soccer goal back on the ground and went to open another bottle of wine.

***

Bright and early the next morning, I called our exterminators and begged them to come as soon as possible.

Fearing for their own lives, they sent someone out the very next day.

***

Him: So, you’ve got a little roach problem, mam? What part of your house are you finding them?

Me: Um, well, inside I haven’t seen any, but I saw one outside last night and…it touched me inappropriately. I mean, not inappropriate like that. It’s not like it cupped my breast or slapped my ass or anything, but…you know.

Him: *long uncomfortable silence* Wait, you saw…one? Outside?

Me: Yes! The one that non-sexually harassed me.

Him: I hate to tell you this, but there’s not much I can do about those outdoor tree roaches, other than treat your yard so they’ll die soon after they venture in.

Me: Wait? You mean to tell me there’s not anything you can do to keep them from stepping all their tiny feet on my premises? There’s not one single solution to this nightmare?

Him: Yep.

Me: But, but, but….I don’t understand. THIS IS AMERICA!

Him: *blinks*

***

Fast forward a week or so.

I was sitting outside, again, when two little lizards strolled on up to me. I’d never seen these miniature dinosaurs before and, completely intrigued, I ended up watching them for several days.

I’m sure you won’t believe me, and I promise I haven’t touched any magic mushrooms in years, but they watched me right back. Not in an evil flying roach way, but more in a “Hey, mind if we crash here for the season?” way.

Being the huge toddler that I am, I had to find out who these guys were. So, obviously, I emailed a herpetologist (not an STD scientist – a reptile one) I found online, and asked him to help me identify them.

I sent him another email, seconds later, telling him I did actually know how to spell inducing.

He replied quickly and not even with a restraining order. Thanks, Travis!

Then, just like that, a funny thing happened.

I stopped seeing those bitch-ass roaches in my yard, and started seeing more and more of those sweet-ass lizards.

Further nerdy research revealed what I already suspected: anoles eat roaches.

That’s when I knew what had to be done. That’s when I knew that somehow, someway, I needed these guys to multiply.

The decision had been made.

Soon, I would have my very own roach-eating anole kingdom.

Oh, yes, I would.

I racked my brain for hours thinking up ways to make this happen. How the hell would I get them to sex each other up?

Just like that, the answer came to me.

I would pipe this loudly into my backyard each evening, just before sunset.

And, you guys?

Unless this is just a great big bear-lizard hug, I’m pretty sure it worked.

Then, I ran into another problem. How would I keep them safe? Between my cat and birds, lizards are an endangered species in my yard.

It was imperative I figure out a way to protect my new tenants and their tiny newborns, because what good are roach-eating lizards if they’re all fucking dead?

So, I searched and searched and searched for answers.

(Aside: I’m pretty sure my husband will submit my internet search history into evidence should he ever file for divorce.)

In case you ever had any doubt, it’s true…the internet is overflowing with super useful information.

So, I hit up Home Depot in search of materials for my lizard friendly landscape. And, then I placed the random shit all over my yard.

Little lizard panic-rooms, if you will.

But, man, I was still at a huge loss about my cat. He may be beautiful, but turn your back on him for a second and he’ll decapitate you. Then bat at your headless body for hours, taking the occasional break to lick his paws and imaginary balls.

Just when I thought all hope was lost, I came across the most beautiful little nugget online.

THE CATBIB!

Invented by some crazy people in 2007, the Catbib is genius.

It not only keeps their tiny kitty shirts stain-free, but it also harshes their hunting mellow by basically giving them two left paws.

And, bonus, it’s cruelty free!

I mean, just look at how happy it makes our feline friends.

I promptly ordered one for my cat, Snoop, in his favorite color – feline fuchsia. Then, I told the lizards, “You’re welcome,” and turned in for the night.

Snoop’s bib arrived a few days later, right about the time I began wondering if I even needed it.

Should I have purchased a Lizardbib, instead?

But, what was done was done, and I was now the proud owner of the CatBib.

(Aside: My cat will never get pussy again.)

***

Confession time: I’ve fallen pretty hard for this little guys. And, not just because they eat Satan’s spawn. They’re really so fascinating to observe and especially when you’re drunk.

I know. Right about now you’re probably thinking, “Man, I knew this chick was a little off, but I had no idea she was this much of whack-job.”

So, if it’s proof you need, it’s proof you shall receive.

Proof…that my anole-fascination is completely warranted and totally normal. In fact, after you see this, you’ll realize it would be weird to not be obsessed with them. Come hang out in my backyard for just a few hours and, I promise, you will be just as smitten.

Truly, they are…The most interesting lizards in the world.

Now, go on.

Tell me you wouldn’t have bought yourself a god damn Catbib, too?

That’s what I thought.

The post I Am The Most Productive Unproductive Human On The Planet. appeared first on me and mine.

And one of them also needs clothes…

Dog x 16
By Luca

A Boy and His Shoes…

Little Man in A Big World…

Stay tuned for my new Project: We See You mission.

And, thanks for squeezing us into your day!

The post Wordless(ish) Wednesday: Small Moments appeared first on me and mine.

Go on, boys, tell the nice lady your names.

“I’m Hold On.”

“And, my name is Gimme a Second.”

Oh, these boys of mine, always joking around. This is Luca. And, this little guy here is my youngest, Leo.

* * *

Okay, okay, so this didn’t actually happen.

Yet.

But, I’m sure it’s just a matter of time.

I spend more days than I should phoning it in, and putting the unimportant before my most important.

Give me just a second, while I reply to this tweet.

Hold still for a minute, honey, so I can capture this moment instead of participate in it…you know, for my blog.

I tell myself they’re still too young to know better, but that’s a lie. Just because they’re not able to articulate it doesn’t mean they don’t feel it.

Somehow, though, they always seem to forgive me, but I’m trying to shape up before they get any older.

* * *

Sweet boys of mine,

I’m still learning everyday how to be your mother.

I try hard to be the best, but I still mess up more than you deserve.

I’m not perfect, and I’ll never pretend to be. But, I’ll always apologize to you when I’ve done wrong. Even tiny-sized children deserve adult-sized respect.

You’re not perfect, either, and I won’t pretend you are. In fact, I want you to know just how imperfect you are. Because, we all are, and isn’t it lovely?

I cherish that I’m getting to know you at the same time you’re getting to know yourself. And, that you’re getting to know me at the same time I’m still getting to know myself.

The complicated journey of self-discovery has just started for you. And, there’s no final destination, just little pit-stops along the way.

I wish I could tell you it’s easy, this growing up stuff, but it’s not. It’s incredibly hard. Never let anyone discount that or minimize it.

You’ll try on a million different hats until you find the one that fits, which will probably end up being the very first one you tried on.

You’ll question who you are often and, when you don’t like the answer, you’ll try to be someone different.

And, that’s okay, we all do it.

But, me? I’ll never question who you are. I’ll only love you, all of you, even the parts you hate. And, when you’re pretending to be someone different, I’ll be here to guard those parts and keep them safe. Because, trust me, one day you’ll want them back.

As your mother, I’m looking forward to so many milestones.

I can picture them now…

I’ll sit on the sidelines and cheer loudly for my baseball all-star. Or, sit in the front row, and silently pull for my ballerina.

I’ll watch in awe at how fearlessly you take on life, attacking it head-on. Or, the way you cautiously approach it, preferring to get your toes wet before diving in.

I’ll talk loud on how brilliantly academic you are, and how effortlessly you earn perfect marks in every subject. Or, the way you put in your all, and study day and night to raise that D to a C.

I’ll beam with pride at how outgoing and confident you are when you walk into a room, and how much you relish the spotlight. Or, at how incredibly shy you are, comforted most by shadows and shining your brightest when no one’s looking.

I’ll stand proudly by your side the day you find God. Or, the day you find you don’t believe in him.

I’ll leap for joy when you find your wife. Or, your husband. Or, the day you decide you don’t want either.

I’ll cry tears of happiness when you finally make me a grandmother to a bouncing baby girl. Or, stray cat. Or, a Chia Pet.

I’ll embarrass you often, bragging to everyone about my handsome, wealthy, heart surgeon of a son. Or, my broke, starving, artist of a man.  Or, my hardworking, honest custodian.

For, you see, it’s simple.

The only thing I expect of you is to choose what makes you happy, independent of what’s considered the norm or what makes others happy.

It’s not your job to live for anyone, especially not for me.

But, it is my job to live for you.

And, because I take this job very seriously, I’ll do things that you won’t understand sometimes.

Like pushing you to take chances on things that terrify you.

Or, stepping back and letting you fall.

I won’t try to fix everything for you. It’s not my place. But, I will always be close by to pick you up and dust you off.

I expect you to be kind, to defend those that are weak, and try to make the world a little better than you found it, any chance you get.

I’ll take you out of your comfort zone, and expose you to things and people that are different from you. I refuse to let you miss out on diversity and all the beauty it brings.

I’ll tell you incessantly to be grateful for all you that have, then remind you that none of it makes you better than those who have-not.

I’ll push you to be gracious and generous. And, not for praise or the expectation of something in return, only because it’s the right thing to do.

You’ll see all of this as nagging, and you’ll roll your eyes and stop your feet and slam your door in my face.

Sometimes you won’t like me, and you’ll tell me so. You may even tell me how much you hate me.

But, don’t worry, it’s a rite of passage, and I’ve already forgiven you. There’s nothing you can say or do to make me love you less.

Life is unpredictable, and ever-changing. With the good comes the bad, and with the happy, the sad. But, there’s one thing that will always remain constant.

I’ll always be here to hold your hand.

Even when you’re trying to let go.

The post A Hand to Hold appeared first on me and mine.

With tears in my eyes I cried, “We’ll miss you so much!”
But, deep down inside, I thought, “Man, this is clutch!”

I’d have the bed to myself, the remote would be mine.
And no one to judge me for drinking a bottle of wine.

Alone in the house, I could burp or pass gas,
For once, no one trying to tap that ass.

How hard could it be, this single-parenting gig?
I’d put the boys to bed early. Oh the beer that I’d swig!

The first night was great, it went according to plan,
So, I woke up thinking, “I don’t need no man!”

But, slowly the shit storm began to move in,
“You think this is easy?” it asked with a grin.

It threw things at me from every which way,
And had ripped me a new one by the end of the day.

I awoke this morning at the crack of dawn,
To find Luca holding some empty Goo Gone.

“I cleaned the house, mommy, I did all my chores,”
He proudly proclaimed, as I slid across the floor.

But, that’s not all, he also cleaned some chairs;
a couch, and the kitchen, and some of the stairs.

We’ll talk later, just get dressed for school,
But, seriously dude, that was so not cool.

He took a deep breathe and said, “But, mommy, that’s not all.
I also helped clean some paint off the wall.”

It’s been four long days that my husband’s been gone,
Suddenly selling my children doesn’t seem all that wrong.

Who knew single-parenting could be such a challenge?
I’m in shock that my mom didn’t drink beer by the gallon.

This week I’ve decided one very big thing,
That nothing could make me take off this ring.

You slept with a hooker? You lost all our money?
Divorce? Don’t be silly. We’ll work it out, honey!

I’ve taken for granted the support I have each day,
And realized a quick BJ’s a small price to pay.

Now, I’d like to take a moment, I’d like to raise my glass,
To all of you who have no help when it comes to wiping ass.

* * *

Dear husband,

You can come home now.

Seriously.

The post An Ode to Single Parents appeared first on me and mine.

Card-carrying members of the NRA, in town for its annual conference.

(Really, some had the permit hanging around their neck.)

Isn’t there a law about carrying guns into a bar?

Anyway, I’m not sure why it caught me off guard. I mean, I knew they were in town. I’d been having lots of fun at their expense in the days leading up to this.

The 2013 NRA convention is here this weekend. 75,000 expected. So, if you’re a deer, or not a white person, you may want to avoid downtown.

— Allison Zapata (@allisonzapata) May 3, 2013

You guys have no idea how many deer I offended.

Of course, I needed evidence of the entire cliche.

With my poor husband melting into his chair next to me, I pulled out my iPhone.

“Babe, Don’t take a picture. Please don’t take a picture. ALLISON, STOP.”

Oh, please, relax! What’s the worst that can happen? You act as if they’re drunk and packing heat. Wait….

I posted one of the pictures later and, predictably, my trusty comrades began ripping my subjects a new one.

But, later on, as I was brushing my teeth, I felt a punch in the gut.

My conscious had shown up to ruin all the fun.

I took a long look in the mirror, and saw a drunk hypocrite staring back.

Me, the ever so vocal one on my hatred of hate and judgment of judgement, had posted a picture on the internet of someone I knew nothing about, and released the hungry hounds on him.

I ran to my computer, deleted the image, and quickly replaced it with another.

(And, by quickly, I mean like 20 minutes. I was seeing double, and typing was not an easy task.)

As I was falling asleep that night, I made a promise to myself: No more calling people stupid motherfuckers.

I would kill with kindness, instead.

* * *

The following day we took the boys to ride the train.

The flawless weather had beckoned an entire city of people to come out and play, and the park was more crowded than I’d ever seen it.

The parking lot was equally insane, filled with frustrated adults running over each other to find a spot.

Finally, I saw a family leaving, so I proceeded to do that creepy 1 mph stalker-follow, quickly turning my blinker on to shot gun the soon-to-be-empty space.

Yes! Finally, I found a spot!

Only I hadn’t, because some dude kicked his car into reverse, and clicked on his own stupid blinker.

Are you kidding me? THIS IS SO MY SPOT. This guy is blatantly stealing my spot. You can’t do the reverse move, that’s cheating. Babe, this is my spot, right? I mean, if someone had to call it, they would call it for me, right?

“Yes, Allison. He’s a jerk. It’s your spot. The imaginary parking judges would definitely call it for you. But, whatever, move on.”

(My husband’s mellowness always makes me look so unstable.)

Not ready to concede, I stood my ground, my heart beating louder than my blinker.

The spot-swiper looked at me, waved his finger back and forth, and mouthed,”This is mine.”

Oh, the rage.

Tunnel vision set in and all I could hear was my damn blinker saying – Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck You.

Finally, the poor car caught in the middle of all this began backing out.

It was go time.

The swiper and I attempted to turn into the space at the same time and, had I been cool with mowing down someone’s grandma, it would have been mine for sure. Sadly, though, I lost our little round of chicken.

I lowered the window as I rolled by, and burned holes into his face with my eyes. On the tip of my tongue, “Wow, your mommy must be proud she raised such a gentlemen…ASSHOLE!” But, my kids were with me, so I sucked it up and reluctantly moved on.

Then, the universe remembered my drunken kindness vow, and decided to put me to the test.

We approached the line to wait for the next train at the exact same moment as another family.

Not just any family, of course.

SWIPER’S FAMILY.

It was obvious by his demeanor, though, that he had no idea I was the chick who’d just penciled him in on her shit-list.

I guess he must have left his balls in the car, because he smiled warmly and motioned for us to move ahead of him.

I had seconds to decide how to react, and a million scenarios flashed through my head.

Should I kick him in the knee?

Should I twist his nipple?

Give him the wettest of all willies?

The fear on my husband’s face was growing.

That’s when I smiled.

Oh, no, please! After you, sir…

* * *

Since these events, one thought has been on constant loop in my head.

Did I kill anything with kindness in either of those situations?

Don’t get me wrong, I love the idea of keeping it classy, no matter how difficult it is for a hothead like me. And, there are certainly situations when this approach can teach a valuable lesson.

But, where is the line?

You know, the line between being the bigger person and letting people get away with awful behavior?

My reactions to unsavory people are usually pretty passionate. But, why shouldn’t they be? Why in the world should I stifle my opinions when people are in my face shouting their own?

Because, it’s politically correct?

Because, it makes me a nice little robot-lady with impeccable manners?

I have no desire to act like lady, simply because that’s what some expect.

I have no interest in being a doormat, especially when I see other people being treated like one.

If what I say makes people cringe, then so be it. They’ve made me cringe.

The fact that I’m often a hypocrite – judging the judgers, condemning the condemners, being an asshole to the assholes – does not escape me.

Would using more kindness and less venom be a more effective approach?

Maybe. I don’t know.

I mean, sure, rising above can be a wonderful lesson for children, and great if you’re a believer in karma, but what happens next? They go on to act shitty towards someone else, because no one’s ever told them their behavior is unacceptable?

There is a time and place for kindness, and a time and place for telling it like it is.

* * *

So, ahem, in closing, I’d like to retract my retracted NRA picture.

Am I stereotyping?

Maybe.

But, if the American flag-covered gun-filled camouflage backpack fits, well….

No, not all gun owners are extremists. But, the ones who carry a gun just to prove a point scare the shit out of me.

It’s like they’re itching for a chance to use it. For protection, of course…always for protection.

These are the people I’m afraid will, eventually, become desensitized to guns.

What do I mean?

Consider what the outcome could have been in the Trayvon Martin case, had the shooter not been armed.

What would he have done?

No one can say for sure, but it’s likely he would have simply stayed in his car and called the police.

And, that young man would not be buried six feet under right now.

So, if these people…

and, these people….

Target Practice

…don’t have a problem speaking out, then why the hell should I?

Their voice is no more important than mine.

And, this country is just as much mine as it is theirs.

If they insist on caring more about politics and profits than our children being killed with guns, then hell if I’m going to kill them with kindness.

*Drops the breakfast burrito and walks away*

(Email subscribers must click through to view the embedded videos.)

The post Killing Them With Kindness – Retracted appeared first on me and mine.

Before I share it, I want to say that this friend is an amazing person, who does amazing things – like this.

Do we differ when it comes to our religion, or lack thereof?

Yes.

But, she’s not one of those fake people parading around as a Christian. She’s the real deal. She doesn’t judge…only loves. Anyway, I’m saying this because I want you to be respectful and loving, no matter where you stand.

* * *

The link.

* * *

This is such a sensitive subject, so I am going to do something I’m not used to doing – choose my words carefully.

I think most of you know that I’m one of those bleeding heart liberals. Some of you love me for that, others tolerate me, and a good number of people can’t stand me.

But, here and now, I am not coming from a political place. I’m coming from my mother-place.

A small excerpt from the article…

“She’s one of my best friends, and she’s an extraordinary person, full of love and compassion. She is also pro-abortion.”

Pro-abortion?

What?

I don’t know one single person that is pro-abortion. Nope, I’ve yet to meet anyone who is all, like, “Let’s go get our nails done and then swing by for an abortion. Woo-hoo! Best Friday EVER.”

Pro-choice and pro-abortion are two very different things. You know, with one of them being real, and the other being nonexistent and all.

Obviously, all abortions are beyond difficult, but since the article focuses on late-term abortions, that’s what I’ve chosen to focus on.

The data isn’t perfect, but the number of late term abortions, those performed past 24 weeks, done in the United States are estimated to be about 0.08%, or approximately 1,032 per year.^[1]

And, I can pretty much guarantee you that none of these were done hastily, or without tremendous heartache.

Some people believe that late-term abortions should be banned all together.

I am not one of those people.

And, yet, I am full of love and compassion, and not pro-abortion.

Consider this hypothetical.

Let’s say I get really drunk and end up pregnant with a third child.

Things sail along smoothly for the first few months, and it’s not until my 24 week check that I receive the unbearable news.

If you have this baby, you will die.

So, I am given a choice.

To terminate or go through with something. Something that will end with my end.

If this were my first child, I‘d like to think I’d brave enough to give up my life for him or her.

But, in this hypothetical, it’s not my first, it’s my third.

I have two little boys at home, two and five years old. I am their world, and they would be lost without me. I would lay my life down for them.

Should I really be expected to pack up my hospital bags, kiss both my boys on the head, and say goodbye.

“Mommy, won’t be coming home again. Ever.”

Some people could do this. And, that’s their choice. It’s what feels right for them, for whatever reason. Maybe they believe this is what their God has planned for them.

Again, I am not one of those people.

I could never leave my kids.

I simply would not do it.

But, I wouldn’t dare judge someone who would. I wouldn’t dare condemn them for leaving their kids motherless.

And, here I sit, still full of love and compassion; still not pro-abortion.

Imagine that.

While this situation may be hypothetical for me, it’s very real for others, and my heart breaks for them.

To be confronted with this kind of choice is enough to break anyone.

And, for them to bed judged, condemned, or shamed is, well, shameful.

*Please, please keep your comments respectful. It’s impossible to hear one another when everyone is yelling.

The post Going Where I Shouldn’t appeared first on me and mine.

As in, he didn’t get one.

And, if you’ve ever gone to Target with both kids in tow, you know it can get pretty messy. Especially, if one of them is hungry or tired.

I was making my way through the store, when Leo ripped off both his shoes, throwing them down the aisle with the skill of an all-star pitcher.

As I ran to scoop them up, Luca began shouting, “MOMMY, Leo won’t stop touching my penis! Leo won’t stop touching my penis! STOP TOUCHING MY BODY, LEO. This is MY penis.”

On one hand, I was proud that he knew to say “THIS IS MY PENIS,” because of, you know, stranger danger. But, on the other hand, having him repeatedly yell penis in the middle of Target was a little startling to…everyone.

During this ordeal, Leo kept hitting the button on his new toy car, prompting the song feature.

Won’t you take me to…a funky town….over and over and over again.

Luca was angry and defiant when I told him the town was funky.

“Mommy, it’s CRAZY town, not FUNKY.”

Crazy town, indeed.

I was smack dab in the middle of that moment.

The moment when you’re sweating, and positive that all eyes are on you and your shitty parenting. It’s easy to forget that, most of the time, people are too busy stressing out about their lives to notice ours.

Just as I was about to lose my shit, an older woman approached me.

What the hell is she going to say to me? That my boys are out of control? That they’re causing a ruckus? That I suck as a mom? I know all this. Move along, lady.

Instead, she gently laid her hand on my shoulder and, with the warmest look in her eyes, said, “Honey, I just want to tell you that you’re doing a marvelous job as their mommy. You got this.”

It had to have been at least three decades since she had stood in my stressed-out shoes, but she could see in my eyes that I was in major need of some encouragement.

Those words took mere seconds out of her day, but they changed mine completely.

You know what? I do have this.

That simple shift in my attitude carried over to my boys, and left us all much more relaxed.

I laughed, thanked her, and we went our separate ways.

But, I wish I’d said more. I wish I had told her that her support, her kind eyes and warm smile, had made such a difference in my day.

In a city of six million people, the odds that I’ll see her again are tiny, so all I can do is pass it on.

Whether it be a look of solidarity, or a quick, “Oh, mama, I’ve been there. It’s so hard, sometimes. But, you’re doing awesome,” makes no difference.

Sometimes, all we need is support from our stranger-friends, from those who’ve been there, to turn our day around.

A few aisles over, Leo chunked his shoes, again, straight at another shopper.

“Uh-oh!” said the innocent victim.

This time, instead of getting all sweaty and panicky, I laughed out loud, and told him, “Being the mom of two boys isn’t easy, but it’s definitely never boring.”

Then, I walked away, the three of us singing as loud as we could.

Won’t you take me to, a CRAZY town…

The post We Get By With a Little Help From Strangers appeared first on me and mine.

Luca, not so much, until now.

He’s finally found his rhythm, and it totally rocks.

And, they’re both mini-masters when it comes to playing the one-handed air guitar.

If you’re an email subscriber, click through to see the dance party.

The post They Totally Rock! appeared first on me and mine.