So, I’m realizing that while blogging about my misadventures in parenthood is all fun and games, there are definitely times when I want to pull back from regaling you with stories of Mo asking (more like demanding) Alicia Keys when we drive to the YMCA or stories of Co flinging herself like a kamikaze into a percariously perched mound of pillows on the living room floor.

I think at first, when I started this blog, I wanted to be all Erma Bombeck and just spout off about motherhood, playgroups, and all things BabyGap. Yeah, that hasn’t really happened.

I used to journal every day, even when I really didn’t have much to talk about. Back then, circa 2004 was the last entry I think, I chronicled my thoughts in embroidered, cloth bound books with a very nice pen. Now, I can type WAY faster than I write; forget about writing checks, I barely want to sign the credit card slip. Anywho, I’ve been using the blog as my cyber journal, but because I have no clue who is reading this and because I have some idea of who is, I’ve got to be a little careful with what I choose to impart. Sure, I’ll drop an F-bomb here or there, and sure, I’ll tattle on myself about what a headache motherhood can be sometimes. Sure, I’ll admit that Christian Bale tops the list of my mommy-crushes (the line starts HERE, ladies. Oh and to Wentworth Miller — out of sight, out of mind, babe), but that’s about it.

So, I say all this to say, I’m not talking about the kids today. Boo-frickety-hoo. . . I’m not really cranky today, it just sounds like I am.