Poop for Peace (and crazy cats)

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Why. Why am I always the blogress of poop? Why is it my lot? I don’t know. I just CAN’T MAKE THIS STUFF UP and it is SO DUMBFOUNDING to me, that I feel obligated to share it with all of you. Because I’m just that speechless half the time.

So wait ’till you hear this one.

Oh, you’re never going to to believe my Monday.

Some of you follow me on Facebook where you may have chanced upon my sad, desperate rant. Where my Monday morning felt like a trazillion years long. Because I was sitting, reading ONE PAGE on the back deck (ONE PAGE!) and the kids were blissfully playing on the new (12 hours new) swingset. Ah, peace. Serenity. Literatu— wha?

Charlie excused himself and stepped into the bathroom. And within 10 minutes, and one very strong stench later I discovered he had done some experimenting with ‘fingerpainting’.  Anybody else deal with this? What exactly are the thoughts/words that fumble through your brain because mine aren’t so funny.  If there is anything I can’t stand, it’s poop. It’s smelly, it’s messy, it’s always everywhere… it’s E.COLI!!!!! AHHHHHHH!

I was not particularly thrilled.

I was not particularly thrilled.

I end up throwing away clothes, towels, the car,  whatever I use to clean, or that has been touched by it because I’m deathly afraid of it. Burn the underwear! Rip out the carpet! Pour Clorox EVERYWHERE! (sorry Norwex)

That’s what happened. And after I ended up showering him, cleaning the bathroom, the dryer, the smears off the bathmat, the toilet— I still smelled it. I hate smelling it, and not finding it. Then I saw ‘tracks’ throughout the kitchen and dining room.  I spent another half hour on my hands and knees scrubbing the life out of my floor and dousing it in tea tree oil until I realized I KEPT FINDING TRACKS.

This had to be some sick joke. Then, I looked down at my own foot and lo and behold, wedged in between my chubby ubby pinky toe was a nice little brown dumpling.


Even more ticked off, reminiscent of Harry and Marv, I muttered my entire way back UP TO THE TUB and drowned my toe in soap and water.

Pretty much.

Pretty much.

The afternoon seemed to resume some amount of normalcy  and stepped out to run some errands/ have a sister date with my youngest sister.

We were giddy on our way to a trendy NYC hair stylist, I deserved this haircut. To get spruced up, especially after a long day. Ah, what a treat. How relaxing it would be…butterflies..rainbows…lollypops..chocolate.. coffee…all those deliriously wonderful places your tired Mommy brain goes to when you think you’re getting a break. Then I glanced down in the Jeep and to my utter horror, yes. You guessed it.


On my toe.

On my other foot.

I was horrified. Shocked. I had cleaned up that debacle HOURS AGO!! WHY??

I poured a bottle of hand sanitizer on my whole foot and scrubbed the life out of it. I can’t walk into Mark Ferraro’s hair studio,

“Um hi. I’d like a trendy hair style, sorry I didn’t shave my legs. Don’t mind my little ol’ poop toe. Do you also sell Hot Pockets?”

Please help me.  Please. No! Why are you walking away? I'm sorry I smell!!

Please help me. Please. No! Why are you walking away? I’m sorry I smell!!

Motherhood is so stinking humbling. (see what I did there?)

Fast forward to bedtime. I’m getting all four kids showered and tucked in, Tom’s out of town on business so I’m flying solo for the bedtime routine (Do the wave all you parents out there who know how much fun that is!)


We’re just about to get everyone down for the count when the power goes out.

And that is really not cool when you survive on sound machines. Or when you only have ceiling fans in the middle of August.

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Sidenote: It was at this point that I found it profoundly hilarious (not really?) that the book I read one page of was the “Writings of Mother Teresa” all one page about serving the poorest of poor in the blistering heat of India. Ah, God truly has quite the sense of humor with me.  Just keep telling me that’s what this is.


(It’s still Monday, lest we all forget! Stay with me folks, I did survive to tell the tale)

OOOO so it gets better. I get them asleep. We have lift off. And guess what?

No really, guess.

Hee hee.

I’ll give you a clue.

It starts with a P…..

and ends with lots of tears, laundry detergent and disinfectant. Oh, and candles. Because you know, what better time to crap your pants and step in it all over your comforter, pillowcase and rug than in the MIDDLE OF A BLACKOUT right after Mommy’s cell phone died?


This actually wasn’t found on Google. This is a selfie I took when all this went down.


Ladies, if you’ve never cleaned up diarrhea on a Berber rug by candlelight…. Let me tell you what you’re missing. In case you’ve ever wanted to know why wine was invented… Well, now you know.

Nothing. Nothing in my life has come quite this close to the terror of stepping on a morsel, missing a morsel in the dark, showering a kid by the light of a billion Sacred Heart of Jesus supermarket candles….just.


Oh and you better believe I got out my exorcised salt, baby. Ain’t nobody got time for that. I called down just about every saint in the book, and then some new ones.



As it would turn out, as it is with every trial in life…about an hour after it was all cleaned up, I went with my Jesus candle in search of a glass of wine and reasoned that oh well. I’m going to sit outside with my neighbors and enjoy the rest of this night. Hmph.

Not even joking, after the first sip everything turned back on.

I guess the moral of the story is, resignation is the key to peace. And sometimes poop forces you into it.

Also, the moral is to have batteries in your house. And exorcised salt.

Also crazy cat pictures do really help.

Also crazy cat pictures do really help.

If anyone would like to contribute to my PERSONAL/ SILENT ‘BOWEL – MOVEMENT- FREE’ VACATION that I am taking for the next 6 MONTHS you may do so now.













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2 year olds

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I’ve only experienced having children ages 6 and under, but so far, I have to say 2 is my favorite age. So much so that I’ve been telling Tom repeatedly these past few months that I hope we always have a two year old in the house. Seriously.

*for the record, I think the ‘terrible twos’ really don’t begin until 3.

At 2, finally it feels like this ‘being’ you’ve dedicated 3 years of your life to is becoming an incommunicable human! We can actually see a personality, finally hear delectable words and adorable mispronunciations. It is so hard to not laugh when a two year old gets upset. I mean, once you get done banging your head against a wall and actually note  how hysterical they look trying to stuff adult amount of emotion into a cantaloupe sized face.

My two year old just turned three and he wasted no time in helping me usher in the terrible threes. Within a week of his third birthday, he managed to flood both of my bathrooms… in a span of a day. Day 1 consisted of me hearing him upstairs ‘washing his hands’ for which I continued unloading groceries, making dinner, and later realzed that ‘huh. he’s still washing his hands.’  Upon sending his father up to investigate, I heard deep, operatic-like tones of concern (shall we say?) for our floor, kitchen ceiling and other fixtures swashing in the deluge.  I think we had just recieved our tax refund that morning. The irony of it all.

Me: (cartwheels, pom poms, throwing confetti)” YAY MONEY I HAVE A MILLION PROJECTS I WANT TO SPEND THIS ON RIGHT NOW!!!”

Reality: (sticking out it’s tounge, laughing hysterically, literally rolling on the floor laughing) “The drain was purposely plugged and the spigot turned to the side, running water down your sink cabinet for approximately 20 mintues. Unless you want to be living in a mold infested house, buckle up and start ordering sheetrock and tile. Bye, bye, moola”.

Then, the next morning, he repeated the same action in my downstairs bathroom. While I was trapped nursing an infant. It was a grizzly week in the Thimons’ house.

I greeted subsequent weeks with the newly transformed three year old with great trepedation. I discoverd a beautiful self portrait in Sharpie on an unfinished antique desk from the 1800’s.  Also, the typical poop- your- pants- and- take- the- diaper- off- on- the- rug-and-run-and-hide schtick. He only did that like three times.

Then there was him pouring a full glass of water all over my living room rug, on purpose. And when the crazy lady came flying into the room flipping out, he merely stood there calmly and defended himself

“I wanted my lego guy to go swimming.”

Why you so crazy, Mom?

Why you so crazy, Mom?

As if I was the ludicrous one in the room.

This third time through three feels particularly spicy, with a side of delirious. I feel like the other ones weren’t as…sharp? Witty? Sarcastic?…. Exhausting??

He has the audacity, every week for nearly a month to say this to me:

Me (desperate, begging, tears in my eyes) “Hey buddy! How about we do some potty training today?”

Him (not even looking at me. walking away. Spitting into the dust)”Maybe on Saturday. Ok?”

(For the record every Saturday he tells me Sunday, and so on and so forth until I blink my eyes crazily and start to wonder who is really in charge here)

This past week, during potty training he really brought his game. He was nodding his head along with my instructions about keeping underwear dry, telling me if he had to go, etc… and he literally was mouthing ‘yeah, yeah….’ to me as I’m running  through the rules of the game. In my head I scoffed ‘ Don’t even. Your the one that’s still pooping your  pants...” (I also have said this to him out loud before, and he told me, totally unphased ‘ I don’t poop my pants. I poop my diaper.” Which made me feel like such an idiot, I keep my comments to myself now. )


Or just a 3 year old.

So anyway, I’m giving him the run down and he’s yes-ing me to death. Finally we get to the good part,

Me: “Ok so I’ve got M&M’s when you go! OK?”

His eyebrows go up, interested.

Me: “So you get one M&M for pee pee…… and TWO M&M’s for poopy!”

Him, not missing a beat, : “And one M&M if I fart?”




Ah but for all those spicy sarcastic three year old moments, there’s every now and then a purely delicious one that makes me wish I could always keep them in a bottle. Mostly those overly confident ones, since three year olds are notiorously overly confident fools. Enormous bravado. (So much so that I overheard my said three year old, hitting on our 10 year old neighbor girl, ” Uh so I use to be the baby, but Max is the baby now. I’m three. Yeah. I’m not the baby anymore.” If he has that much confidence when he’s 13, I’m in big trouble.)

Anyway, my particularly favorite moment comes while we were picking out his church pants. He was trying several of them on, a few pairs were too short. On the next pair of khakis, again, we found too short!

“Man!” I shook my head in disbelief, ” You are just TOO big!”

His squinty eyes shot up at me, “What? I’m not too big! I’m PERFECT!”

Yes, I wrestled him to the ground in a hug. Seriously. That was the cutest thing I ever heard.

How can they be so sarcastic and sweet at the same time? Of course you’re perfect, buddy. We love you. Happy (VERY BELATED) Birthday. **

Spicy and Spiffy.

Spicy and Spiffy.


**This post has been in a draft folder for 5 months. #mommyisdefinitelynotperfect





Category: Uncategorized

Cookie Conundrum

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So everyone was coming over for pizza the other night, and at the last minute before my parents arrived I kind of ate all the remaining Italian cookies we had in the house. Ok, so I live about a ten minute walk away from this awesome Puerto Rican market where they (ironically) sell INCREDIBLE Italian cookies from NYC. And they cost like pennies. So I buy a bag of a billion for like a nickel and then, yes, after a particularly long Friday… I ate them. All. Me. BY MYSELF, I HAVE NO SHAME. (they were rainbow cookies, if you must know. Also, a bunch of those jelly filled ones with powder sugar on top, and the butter ones with rainbow sprinkles and the little twisty ones with chocolate..)


These. Pretty much. All of these.

These. Pretty much. All of these.


So the rest of my story goes that I crazily sent out panicky- pathetic text messages and voicemails begging arriving guests, someone, anyone, to please replenish our Friday night dessert. I don’t know why I texted with such urgency but it worked, well… sort of. Mom called back and in the time it took her to call back, I started to feel sheepish that I ate them.

She was going to get them, but I told her not to worry about it. Especially after she started in with the “What? You ate them all? Are you serious? That’s so much sugar! That’s not good for you! You know better! You’re going to give yourself diabetes!”

Ok. Ok! I know. I ATE THE ONY!

Ok. Ok! I know. I ATE THE ONY!


And so we had no cookies that night for cards. But later on, I starting thinking. And what I thought, turned into convinction. My conviction was the truth and I realized, this has to be heard.

What’s really the big deal about cookies? Why are they always getting such a bad rap? Cookies are probably the most benign way people can choose to handle the hamster wheel of life with kids. I mean. Really people.

Like we do realize that this is how Britney Spears handled her bad days:

She should have just had a cookie.

She should have just had a cookie.


And lest we forget there is a kid out there named blanket:

Please. Put down the baby and go get a cookie.

Please. Put down the baby and go get a cookie.

Look. Do you know what I realized? People lived much shorter lives prior to cookies. The chocolate chip cookie was created in 1938! Do you know the life expectancy of people in 1938? Between 61-65 years. Now, there are thousands of cookie varieties in the world and do you know what the life expectancy is? 82. I’m not good at math, but I can tell that as the cookies increase, so do people’s lives.

"He's holding a note, it says 'Why couldn't you fools create a Nutter Butter?'

“He’s holding a note, it says ‘Why couldn’t you fools create a Nutter Butter?’

Yes. I actually spent all this time thinking about these things to build my case for binging on cookies.  DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS?  It means that science has shown that people live longer since the cookie was created. And most likely, happier.  You’re welcome.

True. True. #cookies

True. True. #cookies

I’d say,  cookies are the least of everyones problems. Let’s not forget we still have the duckface selfies.




And oh my word, Justin Bieber. (no image needed.)


Frankly, I think the odds are most people don’t eat ENOUGH cookies. Like him:



She could really use a cookie. Or ten.

She could really use a cookie. Or ten. Actually, I’m not even sure a cookie could help at this point.

Somebody please give this man a cookie.

Somebody please give this man a macaroon.


Everyone, just calm down, have some cookies. You’ll feel better, you’ll live longer and you’ll be much more happier.

Definitely hit up the comment box with your favorite cookies (that you totally went and grabbed)

nom nom nom

nom nom nom


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It’s a…..book! (series!)

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God. IS. GOOD.  This series has been in the works for over three years now, and my heart is bursting with joy to be able to share it finally with all of you! How grateful I am to Jeff Campbell over at Amor Deus publishing for his interest in the series, and to Lorien West for her awesome assistance and layout/design skills.  To Cardinal Burke, for reviewing the series and assisting with editing, to everyone who’s expressed interest and anticipation for the books to come out—thank you!

These books would not be what they are but for the darling illustrations that my mom, Nancy, has so lovingly and tirelessly worked on providing! A true treasure! The shining stars of these series are the images! Years ago when I dreamed of becoming a published author, I never imagined that the Holy Spirit would put on my heart such a project as this, and to be able to join together with my mom is a gift and a great blessing to me! Thank you, Mom. Also, thanks for never falling short to satiate my constant hunger to read and write…your indulgence has paid off!

Last but certainly not least, my husband Tom, I thank you so very much for all the hours you’ve spent encouraging, proofing, researching, explaining theology to me, and most importantly your eagerness as we worked on these books. You are my ‘better half’ and being your partner in life is certainly my favorite story of all!

If you haven’t already, here’s the official announcement that was e-mailed out this morning:

Dear Family and Friends,

We are are thrilled to share the news that my mom and I have just published a Catholic Children’s book series through Amor Deus Publishing titled “The Curious Little Catholic.” The Curious Little Catholic Series simplifies answering theological questions for the youngest of Catholics. There are currently two books available for purchase: “What is the Eucharist?” and “What is a Sacrament?” – There will also be a third book available within the next few months: “What is a Vocation?” These books have been beautifully illustrated by my mother, Nancy. We have also been blessed to have Cardinal Burke review and edit these books.

To learn more or purchase online, please visit the website: www.curiouslittlecatholic.com

Each book costs $14.95 + 3.99 Shipping (or $36.88 for both books) when purchased directly through the publisher Amor Deus.

Whether or not you are interested in purchasing, please consider spreading the word about this book series! 

We truly hope and pray that these books will bring spiritual nourishment to the youngest of children and families alike!


For anyone interested in spreading the word, there is a promotion tab on the website or you can e-mail me directly for the PDF flyer!

Thank you so much for your interest and support!



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This is not ok.

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Especially if your wife doesn’t have her glasses on.

Especially if she is prone to being easily frightened.

Especially if the moon casts a shadow during the night.

Especially if she frequently wakes up busting to pee at 4 am.




Yes, you’re seeing clearly. That is a lobster in an overcoat.



***Note to all husbands: You cannot hold a wife who has 4-pregnancies-lack-of-muscle- issues to any reasonable standards of control under these circumstances.

Category: Uncategorized

Oh yeah, that’s why I never….

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Take three kids to the grocery store at once. Right. Haven’t done that in over a year. I mean, call me spoiled… or call me SMART. But it’s been well over a year since we took our kids grocery shopping. Usually one of us goes out sans children to complete to fortuitous task of stocking our pantry.

It’s actually quite the coveted job in this house, because of the blissful silence of label reading and aisle strolling whilst the other sorry parent (or uncle in last year’s case) gets to be a human jungle gym for an hour.

But no. Not today. Today I took the kids up to choir and because of the success of one event, stupidly decided to just ‘run into’ the grocery store and ‘pick up some stuff’ for dinner. I let myself be duped into thinking the most DANGEROUS THOUGHT for a mom, “I got this“.  (head up to all my mommy friends : you never get it. ever.)

We needed three things: bread, salad, and eggs. How hard could that really be? Three things. Three kids. So I wouldn’t need a cart. I ran through the rules and loaded out the stakes, early bedtimes if I lost someone from wandering off, etc.

I scooped Charlie, 3, out of his car seat and inquired
‘Would you like to walk?’
Which translates in toddler-speak to ” Do you want me to chase you around the grocery store?
Of course he said yes. And I fat, dumb, and happy obliged.

It took me about 10 minutes to realize the terror I had unleashed upon myself. I was in the produce section, picking up the lettuce when he and Jack started wrestling each other near the glass jars of garlic. Hmmm, I believe 1 billion is the amount of times I had to wrangle the two of them off of one another and hiss through my teeth,
“Knock it off!”
I kept dodging other customers and looking around all squirley hoping no other people would tisk at my lack of control. I gripped Charlie’s hand tighter and started stomping off to find the bread, commanding Jack to ‘march in front where I can see you” and feeling Mia trailing along hanging onto my other shirt sleeve.

Rounding a corner, and surrounded by a gaggle of customers in the deli line, Jack announced clear as a bell,
“Look Mom! It’s your favorite! Wine!”
NOOOO I cringed outwardly and inwardly. SHUT UP.

Of course, as you all know, ignoring a child only makes them talk louder. Especially when you really don’t want them to. Especially when you already looked like you couldn’t pull your life together.

“MOM!” (louder) “MOOOMMM” (pointing, louder) ” Wine! Look! YOUR FAVORITE!!”

And so, because I did not know how to react to the fact that I keep one measly bottle of wine on my counter, and apparently this is how my kid sees me… I giggled out loud correcting him,
“You’re so silly. That’s not Mommy’s favorite!”

Which in mommy language means
“Pipe down you nut. I don’t need people thinking less of me than they already do!”
I’m sure not one single person on that deli lined believed me. And if they followed me the rest of my trip, they might go pour me a glass themselves.

Because the rest of our ‘quick trip’, which in actuality lasted over a half hour, I was chasing Charlie, juggling eggs, putting items back on the shelves, yanking heads out of the bakery baskets of bread ( “c’mere Mia!! Smell this bread! Oh I wish we had this bread!” —– ” Oh so that lady can’t afford to buy her kids bread but she can buy wine. Tisk Tisk“)

Then. THEN. I made the crowing glory choice of the whole trip. I said,

” Hey. You’re not frazzled enough. You deserve to go through self-checkout


I’m such an idiot.

Because our self-checkout station was right next to a big, shiny, silver trashcan. Transaltion in boy : “Yum and Fun” And I had two ridiculously rambunctious boys in tow. And Charlie had been walking, holding my hand, but dropping to his knees every 2 feet of our trek up to self checkout. So I was in a GREAT mood by the time we got up there.

You know how with self-checkout, you have to scan the item then place in bag. But if you put too much in the bag or hang on the bag holder thingy, or sit on the bag holder thingy, or breathe near the bag holder thingy the whole register shuts down and says ‘Please wait for assistance’.


It was a really, really long check out process. A lot of

“Stop! Stop pressing on that! It’s reading your weight and throwing off the bags! They think we’re stealing!”


“Get away from the trash. We don’t touch trashcans”






Yep. Never doing that again.  Yep, I have a serious headache.

And yep, I’m writing this all down for you right now while sipping a glass of my favorite.