How to promote good behavior while losing your marbles.

Lately our kids' problems with sharing, whining when asked to do simple chores, talking back, etc., have caused my husband and I to figuratively lose our marbles. My solution? To literally lose them. We have established a marble jar system to reward good behavior and the results have been amazing.

Here's how you can too:

Things needed:
Two small jars (we got ours from the Dollar Tree)
One small bag of marbles (we used flat glass stones from the Dollar Tree)

How it works:

• Show your child(ren) the two jars and the marbles.
• Explain to your child(ren) that when they do something good from now on, they will get a marble in their "Superstar Jar".
• Let them help you pour the marbles into the starter jar.
• Talk to them about a reward they would like once they move all the marbles to the Superstar Jar (it should be something small, like going out for ice cream or getting a small toy).
• Get started: when your kid does something good, move a marble from the starter jar to the Superstar Jar.
• Once the Superstar Jar is filled, give your child their reward and talk about how proud you are of them.
• Talk with your child about what they would like their next reward to be.
• Have them help you move the marbles back to the starter jar.
• Lather, rinse, repeat.

Side notes:

• Reward good behavior often. Being stingy with the rewards makes your kid get bored of the whole thing with a quickness. Aim to empty the jar within a week or two so they stay excited about it.
• No Indian giving on the marbles. Once they are earned, they can not be taken back for bad behavior.
• Kids are not allowed to ask for marbles if they do something good. They have to be earned without asking.

This is a great way to encourage sharing and relationships between siblings. It also helps older children feel special when they get to do something their younger sibling can't. It has encouraged our daughter to be nicer to her younger brother, share more and help around the house--all without being asked! It can also help with potty training and breaking bad habits.

Two glass jars: $2
One bag of glass stones: $1
Maintaining your will to live all the way through bedtime: Priceless


If you share this post, I will buy you a pony. I suck at Twitter. I am OK at Facebook. Pinterest is my bitch. I am also on Bloglovin' and Instagram.

Parenting: Silly vs. Serious

Before I got knee-deep into this whole parenting thing, I thought I would be a different type of mom. I also thought ADD Daddy would be a different type of dad. I thought I would be the silly and crazy one that threw caution to the wind and made silly faces while ADD Daddy was the one who would stop all the horsing around and make sure shit actually got done. Boy was I wrong.

The way it really works in our house is that daddy is the silly one and mommy is the one that makes sure the ship stays afloat. Some days, I get tired of being the mommy. I want to be the crazy one that gets to throw the kids around and let them eat ice cream for dinner. But most days, I relish my role as the authoritarian because it means that I am making sure my kids needs are met. I know that they are healthy, and well fed and emotionally sound, because I make sure that they are.

Now, don't get me wrong, I also play and roughhouse and have fun with my kids, but that is not my primary roll. Where daddy is the instigator of epic tickle fights and general craziness, I am the instigator of Drs appointments and clean teeth. I'm the boss, applesauce. And I'm OK with that. At least most days I am. Some days I would pay a drunk monkey to take the reigns for a bit so I can just be fun and free with my kids.

Why so serious? Because I have to be. Not because my husband refuses to be, but because I need to know that my children are growing up right and that they don't think that life is all puppy dogs and rainbows. Because it's not. Life is hard. And I want them to be as prepared for what life will throw at them as I can make them. People will hurt their feelings. And break their hearts. Bad things will happen to them. There is just no stopping that. I want them to know balance in life. To know that even when the shit hits the fan, that they are strong enough to clean themselves up and start over again. That no matter how much pain there is in the moment, there is still joy to be had in the future.

If both my husband and I were happy, happy, joy, joy all the time, our kids would have a skewed view of reality. If we were both rules and repercussions all the time, they would have the same. Balance in parenting is hard, but it is important. I often have a hard time with that. I beat myself up for not being as "fun" as I this I should be or as "strict". There is often no winning for me when it comes to me. But more and more every day, I realize that it is OK to be a little bit of both. That just because other moms don't lose their shit in public like I often do doesn't mean that they never lose their shit at all. They may just store it all up under their veil of perfect parenting until they explode. Just because I am the serious parent most of the time doesn't mean that that is the only way my kids see me.

So what about you? Are you the silly or the serious parent? Or the perfect blend of both?

If you share this post, I will buy you a pony. I suck at Twitter. I am OK at Facebook. Pinterest is my bitch. I am also on Bloglovin' and Instagram.

My toddler and my cat might actually be the same person/cat

I am starting to think that The Cool Cucumber and Fatty might actually be the same person/cat.

Why, you ask, would I be confused at whether my toddler son and my obese cat are the same person? Well, the similarities between the two are uncanny (or uncatty, if you will).

They both howl in agony when you take their milk away.
The Cucumber LOVES him some milk, as does Fatty. Duh, she's a cat and he's a baby. But try to get said milk away from them, even if the vessel is empty, and you will find yourself in a shitstorm of titanic proportions. Claws out. Hissing. Fur flying. And that's just the baby. Don't even get me started on how Fatty reacts...

They both have no sense of personal space.
Though they have their own personal method of getting all up in your grill, Fatty prefers to sit on my neck while The Cucumber prefers my lap, both Fatty and The Cucumber will always make sure you are without personal space. Ever. They both like to watch me in the bathroom, both of them are usually under foot when I am making dinner and they both are somehow attached to me from the time I wake up to the time I go to sleep. Fatty doesn't even let me do that alone.

They both love food more than anything in the world.
Dear sweet baby Jesus do these two love food. They would both eat until food came out of their eye holes or they suffocated to death on chocolate pudding. It is both disgusting and fascinating how much this dynamic duo can cram down their gullets. And expensive. And did I mention disgusting?

They both sound like Darth Vader having an asthma attack. 
When The Cucumber and Fatty breathe, it sounds like a plastic bag being sucked into a vacuum cleaner. And not just after they have both finished a rousing game of flashlight tag. They sound like that all. the. time. Try sitting on the couch and trying to enjoy a movie with the mesothelioma twins at your side. Not fun.

They both find the grass greener on the other side. If they stand at the door and beg to go play outside, they will be happy for about two seconds once you let them out there. They will then stand on the other side of the door and beg to be let back inside. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

They both loved to have their bellies rubbed.
Seriously. Both of them. All. Day. Long.

They both sleep more than seems humanly/catly possible.
Of the 24 hours that are in a day, both Fatty and The Cool Cucumber sleep over half of them. They love sleep. Love it. It is like they actually live to sleep. And they are both equally awesome at it. A dump truck could drive through a nitroglycerine plant next door and they would open one eye to investigate, decide it isn't worth getting up for and go back to dreaming about tuna fish and pancakes. Assholes.


If you share this post, I will buy you a pony. I suck at Twitter. I am OK at Facebook. Pinterest is my bitch. I am also on Bloglovin' and Instagram.

Why I am cooler now than before I had kids

I can multitask like a mother

Before I had kids, the mere thought of working out, getting my hair cut and buying an outfit for a party, all in one day, would make me a little anxious. Now? Carry a toddler, my purse, diaper bag, infant seat and unlock the car? Done. Wrangle both children, hand over my insurance card, sign the co-pay receipt and wipe a yucky nose? No problem. Switch the TV to video, open the bag of Goldfish, refill the milk and start Yo Gabba Gabba, all while guarding my glass of chardonnay? I'm on it.

I embrace alternative art

Before I had unprotected sex, my view of art was so narrow-minded. Monet, Beethoven and Poe may all be awesome, but they got nothing on my toddler with a crayon and a tambourine. Though my favorite medium remains macaroni, I have explored the diverse and colorful world glitter has to offer and also embraced the tactile sensations that painting via finger can provide.

I go to a raging party every night
Parties now aren't much different than before we had kids. Sure, it may be in my basement instead of a club and sponsored by Sesame Street and not some trendy vodka, but that shit is off the hook. People throwing things, dancing like they are having a seizure, drinking straight from the bottle, staying up way past bedtime, drinking 'til they pee their pants? Every. Single. Night. Throw in the occasional pile of puke and you know how we roll…straight to nap time. We know how to party hard at our pad.

I've expanded my culinary palate

Long gone are the days of sushi and expensive bottles of wine, but my culinary offerings have grown, none-the-less. Slightly soggy cereal offered via spoon by my toddler? Sure. Mystery nuggets served at my kids' Family Picnic at school? Why not. Macaroni and cheese leftover from my preschooler''s dinner? Don't mind if I do. A Skittle found on a mission to locate a lost toy under the couch? Come on. Of course I am going to taste the rainbow.

I rock the latest trends
Move over Dolce. You too, Gabbana. Dr. Brown and Petunia Pickle Bottom are all up in this hizzy now. Long gone are the days of sporting the latest fashions, but I am most certainly up on the hottest mommy trends. Red 40? I don't think so. Dye- and preservative-free is what all the cool kids are doing this year. And don't even talk to me about BPA. Please. That was so 2010.

I don't sweat the small stuff

Before I procreated, I would worry if my apartment was in disarray before guests came over for a civilized gathering. It takes a lot to make my eye twitch nowadays. My toddler once crawled across our new white carpet with two fistfuls of blackberries during a party. Blink. I then spilled an entire glass of red wine down the stairs, splattering the freshly painted cream walls with a Pollock-esque pattern. Blink blink. I then entered our basement to see that the toddlers had done this to it: (remind me to provide pic) Blink Blink. Twitch.

I think music is awesome
Yo Gabba Gabba may not be the hot new band on the scene, but that shit is catchy. Tell me you can listen to Music Is Awesome without singing, "I like bugs, baby, how 'bout you?" all day? Don't lie. You can't. Because my name is Julie, J-Julie, J-J-J-J-J-J-J-J-J Julie, J-Julie. 

I know the hotspots
A little-know-club hidden in an alley that you need a password to enter? Not quiet. Now, I know when to hit Gymboree for the best sales, where the least disgusting public restrooms are in the mall, which park is populated with the least heathenistic children and where to get the cheapest boxes of wine (Trader Joe's, FYI). I may not know which restaurant is trending at the moment, but I sho 'nuff got coups for Steak 'n Shake. Kids eat free on weekends, yo. Put that scoop in your cup and shake it.


If you share this post, I will buy you a pony. I suck at Twitter. I am OK at Facebook. Pinterest is my bitch. I am also on Bloglovin' and Instagram.

If I had to do pregnancy all over again…

I'm back, Boozehounds. Today I have a guest post over at What to Expect. I am talking about what I would do differently if I ever got drunk enough to let ADD Daddy impregnate me again (fat chance on that one happening, so don't hold your breath for an announcement from, "My Sponsor Part Duex").

Anyway, head over there to check it out. Because it is funny. Or maybe it isn't. If it isn't, just say it is because I am a delicate flower who seeks validation through others.

For those of you who have made your way here from What to Expect, allow me to introduce you to, well, me. I am Julie, also known as The Beer Bitch.

I have two kids, a husband and an obese cat.

I work full-time.

I drive a minivan named Rambone.

I have stretchmarks.

I am far from mother of the year.

I have experienced loss.

Overall, I am a real mom with real ups and downs. And I share them here. I hope you will stay a while. Grab a glass of cheap wine and catch up. I'll wait. 


I'll wait. If you share this post, I will buy you a pony. I suck at Twitter. I am OK at Facebook. Pinterest is my bitch. I am also on Bloglovin' and Instagram.

Because sometimes you have to pee in the little potty

Today I have a guest post from my internet bestie and partner in crime, Motherhood: A Descent Into Madness. Enjoy.

Because when you're seven months pregnant and have a one- and three-year-old, it's always a good idea to go on an eight-hour road trip, we headed to San Diego to visit some family.


Connor was still in diapers, I wished I was in diapers (third trimester of pregnancy, hello), and Ethan was in Mickey Mouse undies. We got about two hours away from home when Ethan announced that he had to pee. Husband groaned, but I was like, oh hell yes because I had to go, too.

Except, we were in completely flat, barren desert land, not a rest stop, gas station, store or even a tree for 100 miles, so finding a place where he could pee without his wang being on display to all the people driving by was proving to be a bit of a challenge.

A while later, husband found an exit that led away from the road a bit, so we figured we could angle our Yukon to shield our son from the passers-by, and them from him.

It was summer. It was hot and dusty and we were in the desert. Ethan got out and was immediately attacked by a giant swarm of flies as he was trying to pee right next to the car. And we had to leave the car door open to shield him from the road a bit, so the flies began flooding the inside of the car, too.

And I was fucked. No toilet for me... Or was there? I remembered that we had Ethan's training potty in the back of the Yukon, and I thought, fuck it. It was that, one of Connor's diapers, or pissing myself. ALL GREAT OPTIONS.

The back of the Yukon was jam packed with our bags, porta crib and other kid crap. I threw only a couple of things out, severely misjudging how much room I was going to need, hefted my ass up into the back of the truck and tried to sit on that tiny potty.

Imagine a circus elephant sitting on a tiny stool? That was me. You'd maybe never guess, but the thing is, it's not that easy to fit a grown ass on those tiny little seats, in the back of a fully-packed SUV, with flies swarming all over you. I feared that a fly would land on my cooter, and it would be the End of Days. My right elbow was banging against the side window and my feet and knees were hitting the back hatch door that I had to shut to keep from being seen. The lid to the potty was jamming into my butt and back and I was scared I was going to break it right off of its cheap plastic hinges. It was 112 degrees in the car and sweat was making me slip and lose my grip when I was trying to balance myself- because I didn't want to put all my weight on the flimsy thing and have it buckle and break and sodomize me with broken plastic shards.

I should have gone with the diaper option.

As I was being attacked by flies, trying to fit my belly between my legs that were wrapped around my ears, trying not to piss all over the back of our car, knowing that our kid was pissing all over his shoes and probably his pant legs, too, the flies reached Connor.

Connor hates flying things like bugs and flies; they freak him the hell out. So a swarm of flies started buzzing around him while he's strapped into his car seat, unable to escape. Literally a person's worst nightmare, if you think about it. Not the flies themselves but being restrained and unable to escape something you're terrified of.

I finished up to the symphony of destruction Connor's terrified screams, the buzzing of a hundred flies, and the sound of my urine coming perilously close to the top of the little cup in the potty, and flailed about trying to escape the dungeon of hell without spilling the pee.

Freed, I tossed the pee out onto the desert ground (you're welcome, thirsty critters) and tried to swat away the flies that were terrorizing my son. Tried, but did not succeed.

We got Ethan back into his seat, got back on the highway and spent the next 45 minutes listening to Connor scream his face off while the flies buzzed around his head and our eardrums exploded from his screams and the wind blasting into our open windows at 80 miles an hour in our attempt to rid the flies from the car.

Eventually, they all blew out. It was totally worth it. Because when you're hugely pregnant and you have to pee, fuck everything else.

If you share this post, I will buy you a pony. I suck at Twitter. I am OK at Facebook. Pinterest is my bitch. I am also on Bloglovin' and Instagram.

Thank goodness for little boys.

Today I have a guest post from Jenn at Something Clever 2.0. Jenn was one of my first fans and she is awesome. She also has pink hair. Even awesomer.

Anyway, enjoy:

When I got pregnant, I was sure I was having a girl. Everyone thought I was having a girl. I think I believed that I could just will it to be true. Spoiler alert: I had a boy.

The following are just a few reasons why I’m glad my little man is a little man:

Girls like princesses and Barbies. Okay, most girls. I, personally, never did. But the odds are that if I had a girl, she’d be into Disney and all things pink. Fuck that noise. I’ll take light sabers and train sets over tiny plastic shoes and purses any day.

Girls appear to cry all the god damn time, in my limited experience. They cry when they can’t find their favorite doll. They cry when they can’t have ice cream for breakfast. They cry when the play date comes to an end. My boy only cries when he’s injured, or tired. Sure, he has his epic screaming meltdowns where I’m convinced that he’s possessed by a demon, but if he was crying, I’d have to feel bad for him. And we’d probably spend a lot more on tissues. (Not true in my experience, Jenn. My boy is way more of a little bitch than my girl. Ha.)

Oh, while we’re at it, I’m saving money on toilet paper, too! Of course, I spend more on cleaning products for the back and sides of the toilet, so maybe that one’s a draw, huh?

If I had a girl, I’d have to worry about when she’s old enough to wear makeup and high heels. The boy, knock on wood, will never put me through that. He’s been wearing jeans and t-shirts since he was three days old, and he will continue to wear them throughout his life. The only way he could upset me, fashion-wise, is if he went through a polo-and-khakis phase. Shudder.

And the products! I spend enough on my own conditioner, face potions, nail polish and all that jazz. The boy will only require a stick of deodorant, a bottle of blue hair dye, and a tube of Clearasil. And that’s only if he ends up with my skin; his father has only had two zits in his entire life. Asshole.

I have never seen a male human take a break-up badly. Ever. When a girl gets dumped, she cries for days, or even weeks. She is utterly inconsolable. I would not be able to handle seeing my baby go through that. A boy, I’m pretty sure, just shrugs and mumbles something like, “Whatever, she was a bitch anyway.” Then he plays some video games and he’s all better.

He will never have a period. Which means I will never have to break the awful, awful news to him about periods. I was once told a story by a woman who had to teach a little girl all about her monthly visitor when it first arrived. The girl took all the information in stride, up until the end, when she was told, “So, you’ll want to mark your calendar today, and that way you’ll know when to expect it next month.” The poor thing cried out, “You mean it’s going to happen again?” That will never be me.

Thank goodness for little boys.

Jenn Rose is a stay-at-home mother to one boy in Massachusetts. When she’s not parenting, she’s watching way too much TV and drinking a little too much wine (not chardonnay). Jenn is a staff writer at In the Powder Room, and she blogs at Something Clever 2.0. She hopes to become a zombie when she dies.

You can also find Jenn here:

Facebook

Twitter

Pinterest

If you share this post, I will buy you a pony. I suck at Twitter. I am OK at Facebook. Pinterest is my bitch. I am also on Bloglovin' and Instagram.

Eight Types of Toddlers

Today I have a guest post from Sabrina at By Breenah. She has a great bucket list, many items on which I would love to scratch off.

Anyway, Enjoy:

The Artist - They draw on anything and everything, with anything and everything. You see make-up, they see a new medium to paint in. You see a wall, they see a blank canvas. In their world if it's liquid, it's paint.

(yogurt, not paint)

The Athlete - They ran before they crawled and threw a ball before they could wave hi. You're still not sure if they know how to walk instead of run. Meal time is a sport to see whether you can get more food in the toddler than they throw on the ground or across the table. In their world if it's round, it's a ball to be thrown.

The Techno - They can probably use your phone or tablet better than you can. Apple was their first word and not for the one they wanted to eat. On the plus side, maybe they'll be ahead of the game and become a millionaire and you can retire. Or they might wind up forgetting what daylight is by gaming all day.

The Xtreme - There is nothing they cannot climb. Or at least try to climb. Getting down on their own is another story. (See: The Monkey)

The Philosopher - There is no answer you give that doesn't have a response of "Why?". They're curious little buggers and get into everything. They're the ones who will take apart their toys (or the tv) to see how they work, but get mad when they can't put it back together.

The Independent - They will do it themselves. Brush their teeth? They don't need your help. Eating? Don't need your help. Drop everything they were carrying all over the floor? They don't need your help. (Hint: Sometimes they do need your help.)

The Snuggler - The opposite of the Independent. They won't do anything by themselves and will rarely walk anywhere on their own. If you're not holding them in some way, they freak out. Heaven forbid you leave the room, let alone the house! (Baby carriers come in super handy for these kiddos!)

The Star - Dancing or just being dramatic, this kid is always the center of attention. This child knows no stranger, everyone is his/her audience. And they better applaud, or else. (Just be careful they don't turn into one of the Toddlers and Tiaras brats. That's scary.)

Thank you to my sister, brother, and Darci for the use of their photos for categories I didn't have.

You can also find Breenah on Facebook and Twitter.

If you share this post, I will buy you a pony. I suck at Twitter. I am OK at Facebook. Pinterest is my bitch. I am also on Bloglovin' and Instagram.

The Confessional: The Great Nutri-Grain Bar Incident.

Today we have a guest post from M. She is being very honest and confessing something that I know at least I have done one...or 20 times. Kudos, girl.

Enjoy:

I love my children to the moon and back, but I'll be honest, sometimes other mommies (and daddies) and their obsession with their picture-perfect-never-annoying-everything-they-do-is-oh-so-adorable children, drive me insane.  So many times I want to jump through the computer screen, stand in front of them with my hands on my hips and say, "c'mon. Let's be serious. Your kid pisses you off sometimes too. Just admit it."

And I'm convinced that any parent that tells you that their child never annoys them, is a liar.

Most days I feel like I am parenting in 'survival mode,' just counting down the hours until nap time or bedtime when I can get a tiny break... but sometimes that break doesn't come soon enough. And when you mix mommy-overload with pregnancy hormones and a lack of Zoloft, parenting catastrophes occur.

Let's be clear, I'm not a perfect mommy (is there such a thing?) and I will be the first to admit that I have my mommy downfalls...

I'm not against occasionally lying to my child. "No, sorry. Having cookies for breakfast is against the law" has escaped my lips several times...the same lips that are trying to hide the fact that mommy has just stuffed her face with a homemade chocolate chip cookie at 8:30am.

I'm not against ignoring my child. Sorry kiddo, but after I have responded to your 43 calls for "Mooooommy" and you continue to chant "mom, mom, mooooommy," I'm turning up my invisible ear phones and pretending like I don't hear that annoying shriek from the backseat.

But there are those moments, when even I think to myself, "Whoa. What the hell did I just do? This just sealed the deal- I will never be nominated for Mother of the Year." And then I usually proceed to hide in the bathroom for ten minutes, staring at myself in the mirror as I watch my tears fall and curse myself for being a horrible mother.

But a few days later, when I feel comfortable enough confiding in a friend to tell her my embarrassing motherhood moment and I relive the words as I speak them out loud, I realize...

This is fucking hilarious.

And without further ado, my first confessional will forever be known as... 

It's no surprise that I am a huge wuss when it comes to the first trimester of pregnancy. For those of you who have experienced the woes, you know what I mean. For those of you who never had bad morning sickness with your pregnancies, I hate you. For those of you who have never been pregnant, imagine having a terrible hangover for seven weeks straight (the nausea, the fatigue, the headache... oh the misery). It's also no secret that I've battled post-partum depression and have been on Zoloft since having Charlotte. However, after finding out I was pregnant, I made the difficult decision to wean myself off of the antidepressant. Combine raging hormones, feeling lousy and lack of medication and you are left with one very unstable momma.

The morning in question, I was in a hurry to get in the shower and get Lily off to preschool. Normally, showering is a pretty uneventful ritual, but standing in one place for 10 minutes in a hot steamy shower when nine weeks pregnant can induce vomiting like you would not believe. Since one of my goals this pregnancy is "above all else, do not barf" I knew I had to take precautions and make sure I had a small snack prior to getting in the shower. Having close to nothing in our cupboards, it took for-ev-er to find something that didn't make my stomach churn. Eventually, I settled on the last strawberry Nutri-Grain bar.

At the sound of the crinkling wrapper, Charley was soon hugging my knees and demanding "Some? Pwease? Some?"

Against my better judgement, I handed my snack over to Charley, expecting her to take a small nibble and hand the bar back.

Instead, she looked me in the eyes and with a two-handed death grip, began squeezing the Nutri-Grain bar between her tiny fingers. I watched in horror as my precious Nutri-Grain bar began bleeding it's strawberry ooze and began crumbing into pieces on the floor.

I screamed "Nooooo!" in my best overly dramatic screech, but to no avail.

I tried prying apart her tiny fingers in an attempt to salvage just a tiny bite, but this girl was on a mission.

Operation: Destroy Nutri-Grain Bar.

I managed to grab a clump of strawberry mush when I realized it was a lost cause.

And that's when I did the unthinkable.

I looked my 20-month-old toddler in the eye and shouted "You little asshole!"

As if that weren't horrible enough, I chucked the wad of Nutri-Grain mush at her chest, stormed off into the bathroom and slammed the door.

I just had my first pregnant temper-tantrum...and good Lord was I embarrassed. It would have been embarrassing in and of itself, but my husband was there for the entire incident. Soon he was in the bathroom, arms folded in front of him as he watched me try to compose myself as I clutched the sink and choked back sobs.

"What the hell was that?!"

"I don't know. I just don't know. It just...came out."

"Kate, you get mad at me when I tell the kids they are being brats. You just called our not-even-two-year-old an asshole!"

"I know, I know. I'm a horrible person."

"No you're not......but if she says asshole, it's totally your fault this time." (thanks dear hubby)

I'm happy to report that I was able to shower (sans Nutri-Grain bar) without vomiting and Charley seems to have recovered from her mommy's tantrum without being traumatized or severely damaged. In fact, she hasn't said "asshole" even once.

So there you have it. My first "I'm not a perfect parent, my kids piss me off and I make mistakes" post.

Or in other words...

Parenting: Nailed it!

If you share this post, I will buy you a pony. I suck at Twitter. I am OK at Facebook. Pinterest is my bitch. I am also on Bloglovin' and Instagram.