The Pumpkin And The Goat.

Once upon a time there lived a pumpkin and a goat.

The pumpkin found his way into a certain toddler's life amidst the contents of a birthday party goodie bag. This particular pumpkin's purpose was to bring joy to small children with bubbles but the small child who owned him never figured out that the stalk was a bubble blower or that bubble stuff sloshed within the hollow insides and so his parents, quite gladly, never shared the secret.

The goat had been living in a toy barnyard for some time but was rediscovered by the toddler with the glee usually reserved for old fruit snacks found smushed into the rug.

Neither the pumpkin nor the goat cleared three inches, but their power was mighty.

"Mommy, mommy! See my punkin and goat!" the little boy would scream at odd moments during the day and proudly display one in each hand.

"Punkin and goat, punkin and goat," the little boy would chant while walking in circles and swinging them in his little hands.

When going up the stairs, a feat that required his little hands to be free of any objects, pumpkin and goat included, he would say, "Mommy, hold my punkin and goat pease."

Most of the time, the little boy's mom did not know where the pumpkin and goat resided. Sometimes they'd show up in the play kitchen or under the table, but whenever they couldn't be found all the mom had to say was, "Pumpkin and goat?" and the boy could produce them in front of their eyes, an invisible tether binding them for eternity.

Of course, since the tether was invisible and pumpkins are not known to stick around much past October, a very bad thing happened. The pumpkin disappeared and the goat sat by his lonesome on a kitchen shelf that should have been out of the little boy's view.

For days he questioned their whereabout and for days his mom did a pretty kick-ass job of diverting his attention using a patented combination of lies and fruit snacks. And then one day he spotted the $#^@ goat on the shelf.

"MY GOAT!!!" he shouted, "Mommy, there's my goat!"

Mommy cringed and waited. He did not disappoint.

"Where's my punkin?" she heard laced with the same passion invoked when requesting a cookie.

The good, exhausted, creative mommy did her best but the toddler saw through the lies. He knew pumpkins don't need "me-time," he couldn't believe the goat would decide to achieve his dream of scaling Mt. Kilimanjaro if it meant saying goodbye to the pumpkin, and while he didn't quite understand the concept of hibernation he was fairly confident it didn't apply to pumpkins.

Desperation set in. This Mommy was no dummy. Pumpkin bubble blower inventory is halfway to China by November 1st!

And then she heard it. Sweet joy of joys. The little boy screamed, "MY PUNKIN!!" Hidden away in a compartment of the diaper bag she didn't know existed was the pumpkin. There were also some pretty disgusting peanut butter crackers and an old banana stem, but the little boy was so glad to have the pumpkin back, he didn't try to eat either.

Mommy, the little boy had, the pumpkin, and the goat had a sweet reunion and texted many pictures to Daddy who was on a work trip in Chicago enjoying dinner at (and this is true, couldn't make it up if I wanted to) The Girl and The Goat not quite, and likely not ever, appreciating the irony of his own girl and goat back home.

The Most Ridiculous Hospital Tour In The World, EVER.

Let's talk about my hospital tour. Normally, I would have dismissed the hospital tour but everytime I asked a healthcare provider or hospital information kiosk worker, "So where do I go when I'm actually in labor?" I was told, "Oh just take the tour. It's great!" Despite my persistence, no one would give up a wing or a floor, so to the tour I went.

I attended the tour alone and on the drive over I felt like a woman freed from her household bonds. My husband was with our son and neither one of them had any idea how long a hospital tour might take. All day? Possible.

Upon arrival, I noticed I was the only one there without a "partner" and upon introductions that I was the only one in the bunch to have already experienced the thrill of labor and delivery. Within five minutes of the tour's start, I knew what to do when in labor. I should have left. I had what I wanted, but freedom felt good and Kerry, our hippie nurse/yoga instructor at the healm of the ship seemed like she might take offense to someone walking off so early.

In the delivery room, I listened to her talk about check-in and checked things off my "Delivery Room Expectations list." Laminate wood floors? Check! Giant TV? Check! Uncomfortable couch for dad? Check! Massive crotch spotlight hiding in the ceiling? Check! It was all there.

My train of thought was interrupted when I heard Kerry say, "A lot of our moms say aromatherapy really helps getting through those contractions, so consider bringing essential oils or lavendar."

I looked around incredulously the nodding heads of the innocent moms who had never felt a contraction. I wanted to scream, "Lavendar?! You've GOT to be kidding. Don't listen to this because the poor soul who comes near you with lavendar mid-contraction is getting it shoved up his ass. Wildflowers are only good if they are a magical elixir in the epidural."

I stayed quiet.

Next on Kerry's list of ridiculous things you might want was a giant inflatable pool. She told us that we should request it early because it takes some time to inflate and fill it, but then we could hop right in to help ease the contractions. Oh! And tell your partner to bring his swimtrunks because he can get in, too.

Are we in labor or on a toddler play date with an unsanitary pool? I do not want to sit in placenta-water and my husband doesn't either.

Still, I stayed quiet.

It was the third ridiculous fact about this hospital that gave me my voice. "We recommend that the baby stay with you every night you are in the hospital so you really get that special bonding time with your infant." Kerry droned on about this as my eyes filled up. I want to bond with this baby and we have a lifetime to get 'er done, but as far as I'm concerned, those two nights in the hospital are my last two nights of sleep for about three months.

"But if you want the baby to go to the nursery, it can, right?" I asked, my voice shaking.

"Oh sure," Kerry responded. Relief flooded my veins, "But," she continued, "studies show new moms sleep more soundly when in the same room as their babies."

"Oh, really, Kerry?" I wanted to shout but didn't have the balls, "studies show I sleep more soundly when I'm not woken up three times a night!"

Instead of saying this I glared at her.

The fourth and final ridiculous fact about this hospital is that according to Kerry they do not "believe in pacificiers." What is not believable about a pacifier? They exist and they work. Were Kant alive, he could riff off a textbook on the existence of pacifiers. Apparently, this hosptial believes in crying babies so I will be bringing a gross of pacifiers in my overnight bag.

When done with ridiculous facts, one ridiculous question came from tour group. "Does this hospital offer room upgrades?" a woman asked.

Umm, are you J. Lo or Kim Kardashian? You've got laminate wood floors and an (optional) inflatable pool. What more do you want in suburban Texas? You are having a baby, not weekending poolside at The Ritz. Get over yourself.

Thank God the answer was no. I only wished Kerry hadn't said it with so much apology in her voice.

So I'm sure my hospital stay is going to be a riot with herbal remedy experts, nursery naysayers, and the pacifier police at my bed. I think I've either picked the wrong hospital or privileged consumerism is finding its way to healthcare.

The Worst Place On Earth During The Holidays.

Has anyone been to Pinterest lately? Yes? Ok, good. Anyone else going to avoid it like it could kill them between now and New Year's? Studies have shown that it is currently the worst place on earth. Need proof? Read on.

I needed a recipe. Really. That was the only reason I ventured over there. What I ran into was enough to make Martha Stewart rethink her entire career.

DIY Reindeer Treats? Why isn't that a picture of Oreos and carrots with a bite mark?

DIY Holiday Sweater Pillow? Do the recipient a real favor and donate the old sweater to goodwill.

The next refresh got more disturbing:

A sandpaper christmas tree as a holiday exchange idea? Let's all hope we are not invited to that exchange.

A DIY Holiday Bucket List? Don't need all those blanks to fill in 1. Survive. 2. Don't Let Any Toddlers Find Out Santa Isn't Real 3. Don't Drink Publicly If You're Pregnant.

The DIY Thank You Cards look lovely, but they also appear to have been created by a master paper craftsman. For the amateurs that will be at any/all holiday exchanges I attend this season, keep in mind you can never go wrong with Kate Spade stationary.

I did one more refresh to see if maybe I'd stumbled into Pinterest during a  Holiday Twilight Zone, but no; no I hadn't. It continued:

A lovely, crafted Christmas card holder. Mine is called "Scotch Tape."

A gratitude game to teach your children gratitude. Bribes that involve Spider-Man fruit snacks are just as effective.

A New Year's Eve craft that lets you craft something out for each hour leading up to 2014. I suppose this is for those who can't get their crafting fix out of Christmas, who I would imagine are not that crafty in the first place.

Ladies, for the love of God, lay off Pinterest with the holiday DIY-ing. Unless, of course, you're DIY-ing it with a box of wine and an Amazon Prime membership. Instagram that and I will follow you for life.

2nd Trimester Superfoods.

The other day, feeling a bit masochistic, I perused the internet for information on the second trimester.

I found a tidbit that I had not come across in my first pregnancy: during the second trimester, women are highly prone to yeast infections.

Wow universe, you are clearly a chauvinistic asshole if the the trauma 'round-the-corner for this general area isn't enough to keep you satisfied.

Anyway, this knowledge struck fear in my heart. I've only experienced the joy of this lovely female plight once before. It was the summer of 2005. I was living in Chicago and spending far too much time in a bathing suit on North Ave Beach and running dozens of miles along the lakefront in the humid mid-Western air. By the time I acted on my condition, dough rose when I walked by and antibiotics were needed for the cure.

Not ever wanting to relive this, my google search took a turn to "preventative measures". Given that real medications and pregnancy oftentimes don't mix, I found a slew of "natural" precautions. My opinion on non-Western medicine has not changed, but I was willing to learn about the roots, ginkoba, and berries that might save me from my plight of that uncomfortable summer so long ago.

Greek yogurt was the first thing that popped up. "Easy," I thought to myself, "I like yogurt, I'll increase my servings." I read on and, to my horror, found the word, "Insert" prefacing the word "yogurt" mid paragraph. My jaw dropped and I laughed so hard my shoulders shook realizing this article does not suggest the yogurt enter through one's mouth.

My Vanilla Oikos is not going up my crotch. I don't want to be the person remembered at the hospital for delivering a yogurt-glazed loaf of bread.

The next preventative measure listed was garlic and I knew, before I read, where the article would like it shoved. With a straight-face, it suggested peeling a clove or two and delicately jamming it up the lady parts. Worried about losing the garlic in your uterus? Don't be! The website said it will eventually fall out.

This would be one way to make a cervix check more uncomfortable.

"Well, you're 2.5 centimeters dilated and these two bulbs of marinated garlic in my hand indicate your child will be perfectly seasoned."

Instead of following this advice, I will take my chances that pregnancy sticks to affecting my shape, weight, hair, nails, teeth, ankles, back, and feet and lets the body part that got us here rest in peace. It doesn't deserve the yogurt.

The People You Should Lose Touch With.

Somewhere, in the unwritten rulebook of life, it is written that there are some people you should lose touch with as the journey unfolds. If you don't, the nostalgia surrounding a younger era that is permanently instagrammed in your mind's eye is replaced with a reality you'd rather encounter in rush hour traffic or when trying to reach the numbers on the ATM and it becomes embarrassingly obvious that you will either have to roll your window down and hang out it or open your car door and stand next to the machine to reach your $60.

I've discovered, this unwritten rule transfers from real life to fake social media life. I have not sent or received a friend request from with the  little boy who was super cute in 2nd grade and is now a manager at Staples. I'm not friends with my high school boyfriend, although I was for a few months until I bashed Delta  repeatedly, and very humorously I might add, without realizing Delta was his employer. He took it as a cue to bash my employer (not sure how he knew where I worked, that was a bit creepy), who sells incredibly tasty fast food that everyone enjoys as opposed to making business travelers mad, so I unfriended. It was an important lesson about who your real social media friends are.

The other night my phone buzzed with a friend request. "Who is this?" I said to myself. Stumped, I asked my self again, "Who is this person??" Assuming it was someone random whose news feed I'd shown up in and unsure as to why this random person wouldn't use LinkedIn instead, I set my phone down.

And then I remembered.

I gasped. I cringed. I smiled. I cringed again.

He had long curly hair, which was much longer than my boy-short locks that I thought were awesome but now make me question my taste in  general. He was an actor. I think he knew how to surf. He had an accent. He was incredibly cute and I dated him during a semester abroad in Australia.

However, he was my "one-off." In college I told my friends that my future husband was somewhere in the Northeast at a similar college and we'd meet in Boston. NAILED it. I didn't date ACTORS or people with LONG HAIR when I was stateside!

But now, here he is, his locks still flowing friending me from Park City. We were supposed to lose touch so I could keep him as the cute Australian actor I dated and he could keep me as the American with short hair he dated at uni. Every once in awhile he'll pop into my conscious mind from the recesses of my college memories where he is stored next to Brittney Spears and Ruthie from The Real World and I smile.

I don't however, care to know where he is currently backpacking or what he is having for breakfast. He was only real when I was 20. Brittney's comeback was depressing. I think his would be, too.

No More Handmade Halloween Costumes.

I am certain I have used this vehicle as a platform to proclaim my strong disdain of store-bought Halloween costumes. I am as passionate about this as most are about political beliefs. Those who really know me know where I stand and I know bringing it up in mixed company would be deemed uncouth.

This immutable view took hold in college when my roommates and I needed little more than a glue gun, felt or fabric, pipe cleaners and duck tape to create our Halloween alter egos. We missed the memo that every other girl on campus received stating this holiday was for unleashing our inner punishable Catholic school girl or naughty nurse and, instead, took pride in making magic from common big-box store items.

One year, we were the Three Little Pigs and The Big Bad Wolf. What were we really? Three girls in white shirts with pink felt wraps at the waist, hot glued with felt "Pig 1," "Pig 2," or "Pig 3" letters and a menacing wolf in a brown dress, brown tights, brown clogs, and an oval piece of light brown fur pinned to her stomach. There were also pipe cleaner ears and tails and store-bought snouts in case our felt-on-felt costumes didn't make our ensemble clear.

A few weeks ago, my roommates and I had a chance to get together and spend a solid 15-30 minutes regaling a new boyfriend in the mix with our Halloween stories.

"We could do anything with felt and a glue gun!" one of us shouted, still proud of the truth in that statement.

Last night, my husband and I aligned on our son's Halloween costume. He will trick-or-treat as Bob the Builder because he loses his shit when he espies the inept handyman and Elmo just feels so trite and commercial.

Before the conversation was over, in my mind's eye, I was running down the aisles of Michael's, Hobby Lobby, and Jo-ann Fabrics filling my cart with Bob the Builder raw materials.

My husband's stern voice broke my virtual craft shopping spree.

"I need verbal confirmation that you WILL NOT make this costume."

"What?!" I said, surprised that he had followed me on my journey but sounding like I'd been caught with a pipecleaner hot glued to my back.

"Say it, Ann," he continued leaving the "ie" off my name which meant business. "You will not make this costume."

"Why?" I said buying some time to peruse my brown and yellow felt options and wonder what aisle would hold a hard hat.

"I swear to God, if our son has a felt toolbelt pinned to him, he's not leaving the house."

"But it's fun!" I shouted back.

"Fun for you. 15 years ago. Not fun when your son is the little boy in the felt costume. Buy it."

Defeated and misunderstood, I texted my college roomate with my husband's ultimatum.

"PINNED?" she wrote back, mocking my husband's knowledge of felt costume-crafting, "I think he means HOT GLUED! If the belt's off the table, make the tools!"

And there my friends, is the loophole. Like Sandra Lee, we will have a semi-homemade Halloween.

Let's All Agree To Stop The Absurd First Day Of School Pics.

The first day of school is several years away and I'm confident I won't live up to the expectations.

I am sure my son will be dressed in a clean, cute outfit. Ok, that's a lie. He's a boy. It will be cute but it may have some dirt or maple syrup on it.

I am also sure I will take a picture. Using my phone. The badass camera we bought in preparation for parenthood sees little play time. The vision of us as a camera-toting couple, using magical settings that make childhood look like a wispy cloud-filled fairy tale, hasn't quite come to fruition.

I'm fairly confident he won't be holding a sign with the date and his grade. Now, in theory, this is a good idea, but then again, so is Communism. I don't want to embarrass my son during the wedding slideshow when his first day of kindergarten pic pops up and the date is written in black Sharpie on the back of an open gas bill envelope.

I thought I'd found my out.

In late August my facebook feed filled with photos of children holding pinterested-out handmade signs declaring the first day of school. My initial horror receded into a dull annoyance only when I realized it was my Southern friends crafting Chevron striped, faux French Provinicial chalkboards and hiring talented baristas for the delicate scroll. If this is a Southern thing, I will gladly play my Northern card and pass on the antebellum ritual.

My horror returned today when moms in Upstate NY joined the shenanigans.

Ladies, let's stop the madness. I understand the pride in the first day of school but we are glamourizing an event that will happen 13 times and, quite honestly, looks like a pain in the ass. School supplies, early mornings, clean outfits, nourishing breakfasts, and the four years leading up to it that were filled with flying puzzle pieces and crushed Kix do not deserve a plaque.

Yes, I know your old friend from work quit her job and started a photography business and is now posting somewhat annoying photos 2-5 times a day with her logo on the bottom and making you feel incredibly inadequate with your camera roll, but what no one is telling her is that the sunswept, filtered, professional sign filled photos are dorky. Friends think it when they're posted and in 13 years your child is going to wonder why all her childhood events had props.

So, let's start a new trend. Change is hard, but it oftentimes begins with a small group of passionate people. I think we are it and I think we are needed.

Screw the sign and pin some mimosa recipes. Mix a giant batch. Bring this giant batch to the first day of school and take photos of you and your friends toasting yourselves for reaching the day with minimal puzzle-shaped scars marring your bodies. Shun anyone with a sign. In fact, make a sign that says, "If your child has a sign, you cannot have a drink."

By the time our first day of school is upon us, the mimosa trend will be all the rage and I will know who to thank. In fact, thank you in advance for your social activism. It's people like us who can truly change the world.