Unhappy 4th of July

My thoughts during the fireworks last night:

I wonder if they’re scared.

I wonder if anyone explained to them about the fireworks.

I wonder if they think the noise is bombs and they are not with their mommy and daddy.

Are they crying and screaming for their parents?

My dog is terrified. The kids must be too.

Why are we here celebrating this year?

What does “land of the free” even mean anymore?

Fourth of July was once my favorite holiday.

The Best Is Yet To Come – An Ode to 2016

Heart wrenching news, 

tremendous loss, 

political, financial and social instability.

Sadness, fear, anger and uncertainty.

It redefined so very much.
Amazing vacation memories, 

gutsy and brave new starts, 

renewed faith, 

happy, healthy, thriving children,

unwavering love and devotion,

old friends, new friends.

So much to not be taken for granted.

So much to be grateful for.
Speaking up, 
acting out, 

spreading kindness, 

seeking peace, 

choosing joy, 

stepping up,

stepping out

venturing into unchartered territories 

where dreams live and priorities are clearly and joyously redefined.

You Can’t Make This Shit Up

The Mamalogues, July 11, 2015

I grew up in Miami, Florida. My parents are Cuban and, though I’ve never set foot on Cuban soil, if you know anything about my culture you will understand that I am Cuban.

Shit is a big deal in our culture.

If someone is lying or an idiot- he is full of shit.

If you look bad- you look like shit.

If you look good you’re hot as shit.

If you’re lying you’re eating shit. As in don’t eat shit with me, man!

And if you’re stuck up you think you’re good as shit.

The best one is- when you’re really, really upset- say you were just cut off by a souped up 1985 corvette in Little Havana you yell – Come Mierda.

Which is loosely and dispassionately translated as Shit Eater.
So it’s No surprise that this Cuban girl’s monologue is all about shit. Poop, doodies, turds, merde, Mierda, caca. Emphatically or loosely- no pun intended- shit rules!

Nothing says love like finding baby shit under your nails during your first date night post baby…

On the drive there…I smell her. I swear I do. I smell her every time I move my hands. Oh my god I can’t do this. Are you sure she’s ok? Really? There! Did you smell it?

After sitting at the table still baffled by my keen sense of smell I see it. There’s something under my nail. Oh sweet Jesus is it? Oh God it is!

I. HAVE. SHIT. UNDER. MY. NAIL!!!  Oh my god it’s a sign. We have got to go. Now. Let’s go let’s go. I can’t let someone change her. Remember what they said? They said do not under any circumstances allow poop anywhere near her vagina. Do you know how hard it is to clean her and not get any in there? No, you do not because the poop? The poop is all mine! My department! And this babysitter has no idea either. I used a Qtip yesterday for God’s sake. Hurry up or she will be infertile from getting shit in her vagina and after all this you are damn right I want her to experience motherhood-shit under fingernail-and all! Let’s go! Wait, let me chug my Cosmo. Ok! Fuck the bill! We need to save her vagina!


I was the last one of all the girls I grew up with to get married and have babies.  I was 36 when I had my first child so while I was changing poopie diapers my girlfriend were worried about prom dates and preventing poopie diapers in the months ahead.

My pregnancy announcement- yes, pregnancy announcement!  (It’s true..)

I waited years for this. I hosted bachelorette parties, bridal showers, bought a bizzilion hideous bridesmaid dresses, hosted baby showers and fixed more canapes than I will ever admit.  Those were followed by baby gifts, baptism gifts and endless upon endless days as a single, kid-less, Cuban female at Chuckee Cheese celebrating another kiddie birthday party. You are damn right I gave them 9 months to syphon money from their rich husbands for my kid’s gifts!

So the announcement…Me, pointing at my belly with the headline “It’s payback time, Bitches and forget Babies R Us. I’m registered at Tiffany’s, Saks and Nordstrom.


When my daughter was ten days old I figured we were three days late to begin Basic Training. This kid was going shopping!  So I went into her absolutely- jam-packed-with designer-pink clothing-closet and pulled out my favorites. A Baby Marc Jacobs onesie with a matching jacket and hair thingamajig and a blanket my friend brought back from Spain hand knitted for her royal highness by his great aunt.  I dressed my live baby doll and packed the car up for a day (yes, I thought a day!) on the Country Club Plaza shopping, having coffee and visiting with my mom who of course flew in four weeks prior to my due date to not miss the royal birth.  (I am not kidding. My mom and grandmother lit candles to all the Catholic saints praying someone would knock me up!)

First stop…Pottery Barn Baby because-Look world!  I finally have one too!  We do not so much as cross the threshold into that store when my gorgeous and gorgeously attired offspring makes a sound from her bottom that literally freaked me out, stopped me dead in my tracks and had the people around me turn and look right at me.  I looked into the stroller to confirm that it was still my beautiful baby doll and not Pumba from The Lion King in there and I could not believe my eyes.

There was something liquidy and bright yellow that I swear looked just like her poop coming up on her back, going into her hair and starting to stain the hand-knitted, straight from Spain blanket.  I immediately made a beeline with that stroller knocking down everything and anyone in my path to get to the bathroom in the back of the store.  My mother following belting out instructions in her Ricky Ricardo accent the entire time.

I get to the bathroom and Oh My Lord!  There was poop in her hair, up her back, on the stroller, around her neck, on the blanket and- the Marc Jacobs Baby attire- oh no not the MJBA!!  So I did what any new mom would do.  I picked her up, set her on the changing table and, through my full blown snotty cry told her it was ok and Mommy would clean her up.  “It’s ok baby.  You didn’t know it was Marc Jacobs you were getting full of shit”.

I turned to my mother said (Exorcist voice) “Get Me Scissors”. And right there in that bathroom comforting my precious, shit-filled angel, I committed a mortal sin.  I cut that Baby Marc Jacobs off that girl, threw it and the blanket in the garbage, changed her, cleaned her, put her in a fresh diaper and cried tears of joy that I had conquered that shit!  Until my mom said……(insert Cuban accent) Ceci…I am looking in the diaper bag and I am not seeing another outfit.  FREEZE!  What do you mean another outfit, Mom?  “Well, jew no, a, como se dice, back up out feet”.  No, I don’t jew know!  When you leave your house in Marc Jacobs there is no “back up out-feet” necessary, Mother”!

$45 dollars and two hours later (because after she pooped she had to eat) me wearing a shit-stained shirt and my baby swaddled in only a blanket ala Baby Jesus and not Marc Jacobs, we made it out of Pottery Barn baby to find that the Basic Training had been on me.

Through all that, wippee after wippee, kind word after kind word, I realized I was so deeply, truly, movingly in love with my daughter that even her shit did not stink.


I do not know of any mom who did not ponder how they would ever be able to love their second child as much as they loved their first. Yeah you hear all that b.s. about your heart expanding and all that bullshit, but really?  How can it be?

My son was born at 36 weeks-8 pounds, 21 inches and in full respiratory distress. Yeah, it happens in 20% of white babies and this kid apparently did not get the memo that he is 50% Hispanic. To say that my love for him hit me like a ton of bricks is an understatement. He was sick and I would have done anything for him. Anything that is except change his diaper- no way, no how, no shit!

The NICU is intense. That’s a whole other monologue but…after days of being told that I should cup my hands and not stroke him, that my smell sent him into distress, that the best I could do for him was watch from the window and pray—into the Mommy Waiting Room comes the lady from Poltergeist.  You know…the one who says Carol Ann stay away from the light”. Yep.  That one.

Poltergeist nurse says…”Are you Baby Redmond’s mommy?”

Yes. Yes I am—I respond heart racing and my head screaming “what the hell happened that they are sending the lady from Poltergeist out to get me”!

“Why hello I am Bunny.  Baby Redmond has a dirty diaper and I thought you might want to come in and change him since I know you have not been able to hold him”. “Ummm…dirty diaper? As in poop?”

“Well, yes.  I believe he has a nice doodie in there which is a great sign that his bowels are working and he is eliminating waste”

Head screaming again “holy shit his bowels were NOT working? What the hell is she saying to me? Doodie? Doodie? No wonder Carol Ann ran to the light!  This woman is a fucking freak!”

I responded…in a voice two octaves higher than mine because I have this problem that when people speak weird or have an accent I imitate them without even knowing it!—“Well, see Bunny, I never changed a diaper until I was 36 years old. They gave me a class here so I could do it properly and not get shit into my daughter’s vagina- which is a big issue for me, Bunny.

Baby Redmond has different equipment and, well, I need another class you see, Bunny.  He is suffering so much and if I get shit in the wrong place I will hurt him and leave him sterile and he will hate me.

No, No, No, Bunny, Let. Go. Of. Me! No I do not need a hug. No I am not depressed. No, Bunny, I am freaking out that my baby can’t breathe and is now sitting in his own shit while the lady from Poltergeist is debating whether or not his mother is mentally competent.  I am fine, Bunny. Go Get that doodie Bunny. GO!


My son was a fine artist.  Every time I pulled his diaper off he would spray the walls with pee. I would laugh so hard trying to cover his weaner up while holding him on the table that it would get everywhere.  One day he was particularly cranky. I, of course, thought of Bunny and wondered “how do I know if his bowels stopped working?”  You see…I am shit obsessed!

As I was grabbing a fresh diaper that kid Jackson Pollak’ed all over the wall of his bedroom.  I swear if I had a canvas I could have sold that shit for millions!  There I was with a shit smeared wall just looking at my son smiling.  He got that doodie right out. He was happy and I could care less that I had a masterpiece to clean up.  I looked in the mirror and had a lovely Cindy Freakin’ Crawford mole on my face.  And though I wished I had turned into a super model as God’s reward for the shit cleaning-my mole smeared. Yep. Shit on the face.

As I smiled I thought…Who is this woman in the mirror?


I am not sure if my youngest child ever really pooped. I was too busy chasing after the other two to log away poop memories for her.  But there is one that has stayed with us.  As I was wiping her one day when she was feeling sick to her tummy I said “Oh baby, you have diarrhea .  She said, No, Mommy. I have Pooperias.  So at our house its pooperias.

Which really is much more relevant since it incorporates the word poop and who the hell knows what diah really is anyways right?

My good friends will tell you that you might be sitting having a glass of wine with me on the couch and hear a random “Marlin, wipe my butt” coming from my youngest child!  She is 8 for Christ’s sake but still calls for back up.

Because that one -that skinny little redhead you see-  that one poops like a man!

She calls herself “The Little Master”

The other day scanning through my Photo Stream I came across a picture of a ginormous turd in the toilet.  Once I found the culprit my darling baby girl  says “Mom, it was so huge I thought it was picture-worthy. Besides, my brother wasn’t home and we have a competition as to who makes the biggest turds”.  And you know what, I am good with that because as long as the boy’s bowels keep working I am all good with a turd docudrama on my Photo Stream.

By the way…my youngest calls me Marlin as often as she calls me Mommy.  It started when she was 4 and right after her dad and I separated. We were watching Nemo and she said “from today on I am calling you Marlin”. I said “Why baby?” and she said “Because like Nemo you’re all I’ve got”. Damn right I will wipe her ass until she is 21 if that’s what she wants!


Nothing joins us more than shit. I mean think of the first time you pooped after you were married?  I used to wait and go at the McDonald’s on i70 on the way from Kansas City to Topeka.  I’d wave at all my Mexican friends and say “Buenos Dias. Voy al bano!” My ex-husband thought I just did not poop. “My wife? No she does not poop. Never once has she pooped in the last year. Girls just don’t poop”. Damn, straight, Skippy, in that department I am still a virgin. No pooping here”.  That is until you deliver your first kid of course. And then it’s…We will never speak of this again!


So, before this really goes down the shitter, you have probably caught on that there is more to all this than 50 ways to say feces.

This shit is about being vulnerable and discussing the undiscussable with those you love.. It is about the transition into selflessness that is required of all mothers. The point where shit stops being shit and you actually smile about it.

Shit like love is raw. It is real. It is uncontrollable. It changes in form. At times it is solid and other times it just liquefies right before your eyes.  Sometimes it just happens and other times it takes work to get it out. You just can’t control it. It can happen when you least expect it and you just have to pull over and take care of it. It can take two pieces of toilet paper to clean up or half a roll. And it can leave you hurting for a day or two. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you just coast right by and shit is actually pleasant, a real relief. A big win.

And then there are those times that it is so spectacular that you have to take a picture of it and show your brother because…“ You Can’t Make This Shit Up”.