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Every morning as I begin to hear the faint rustling of my husband alarm clock beside me, my hand instictively reaches out for my phone on the nigh stand. Blinded by the digits blaring back at me, I'm either begrudgingly swinging my legs out of bed or waving the white flag in a sleep surrender for five more minutes, give or take. From then on, my morning varies between good and usual.
Good Morning: Full outfit. Full makeup. Full coffee mug.
AND
Usual Morning: Sweatshirt. Leggings. Slippers. Lighting a candle on my shrine to whoever invented those drive-thru coffee huts.
A good or usual morning, depending on when my other human alarm clock yells "Mama! It's time to get up! I want pancakes! Where's my robot?"

I'm making toast, after a "sorry out of pancakes" temper tantrum, teaching a lesson on lego etiquette, "if you throw twenty pieces on the floor, we might only find seven now and step on thirteen of them later in the middle of the night" ala cause and effect, and checking my email. Ding ding ding. The life alarm. Remember to buy this. Sell this. Push this. Write this.

Whoa. It's not even eight in the morning, let me put my pants on before I read about what new pants I need to put on.

Four years ago, I would have been over the moon about a pants email (we are running with this whole pants metaphor. CS Lewis I am not).
Free pants? Me is to blog as pants is to get. Plus another pair for one lucky reader.
These are the best pants ever! Says the person who thinks Costco sample Saturday is the closest thing to Heaven on this side of the pearly gates.
Have free pants, will write was my hobo middle name on the side of a Blogger highway.
Then it was scarves, and jewelry, and shoes, and computer software...but free! Kinda like that one time I won free tickets...to a WWE event. Tickets to a stupid thing. FREE tickets to a stupid thing. Well, when you say it like that, hell yes I can smell what the Rock is cooking!
Giveaways, codes, comments, likes, follows, like for like, follow for follow, click, tap, do it all again.

You know what.
I just want to make pancakes (switching metaphors right about now).
I have the flour, sugar, eggs, and milk. Everything I need.

Best part is, you don't even need to wear pants while you make 'em.

Does that make any sense?
Come on over to my house and I can explain much better. I'll make you pancakes.
I'll wear pants. Gah.

I made you read "pants" eleven times.

I've missed this blog.


xoxo

{Bon Bon}

I've Always Been a Tattletale

What has two, going on three years of this whole parenting thing turned me into? (not to mention the previous years spent babysitting and nannying, plus the prior years when I WAS the kid) Well, it makes me a professional playground aficionado. I know, big dreams people, big dreams.

Parks and play spaces-places-and areas oh my, I've been there done that, about a thousand times give or take. You always have a motley group of people at these family-friendly hot spots. These venues being, the general public, and all. Moms, dads, grandparents, nannies, whatever. Today, I want to talk about the three types of children you will inevitably encounter at the top, middle, or bottom of any given slide. 

#1. The supremely nice, sweet, and helpful child. Usually older, they will gravitate towards the younger toddlers in need of a helping hand. "Watch this, little one! Let me help you!" "Here, do you want to play with this?" "LEARN FROM ME!" You'll think to yourself, "Wait, did I miss the chapter where God sends his Son down to earth again?" They are actually that perfectly angelic. 

#2. The bully. Maybe they've fallen off of the tire swing a few too many times and thus must ruin every playground experience for every human they run into face to face. I always think maybe they're just "hangry." It always begins with a stare down, searching for their prey, and it always ends in a shove to the ground. His mother will appear with an admonishing, "You say sorry! Say sorry right now, Patrick Bateman!" 

#3. The bully...without...any...parental...supervision. They push, kick, shove, and take all day long. They live by the Outback restaurant slogan, "No rules, Just Right!" It's every child for themselves, literally. You give them the benefit of the doubt, "Oh you poor thing! No parents at all? Raised by a pack of Australian dingoes, tsk tsk. Here's a granola bar, please don't bite me."

Hashtag Note: Kids will be kids, boys will be boys (girls will be girls?), YOLO. I understand the general learning curve with sharing toys, taking turns, screaming, hitting, pushing, all the stuff that comes along with children learning how to be (hopefully) civilized (hopefully) #1 type adults. Kids are messy, loud, demanding, and misbehaving. I know, cause I have one, (and acknowledge that I have one). I'm actively trying to encourage him away from being a messy, loud, demanding, misbehaving adult.

I'm at the playground, usually drinking an iced Kicker from Dutch Bros, occasionally checking my phone (probably, counting down the time), talking with another parent, sitting, standing, or swinging. Always watching. I am always watching. My mothering type can be summed up in that Celine Dion song, "Near, far, wherever you are!" I may not be right by your side, but Josiah James, I know that you're on the other side of that picnic table thinking about picking up a dirty Mickey Mouse bandaid. And I will stop you, because I'm somehow watching you, (with my actual eyeballs, not the ones they say are in the back of my head).


For some parents, they think a play area means, "All this fun stuff is here so my kid is gonna have fun fun fun and be the funnest fun ever and fun! See you in two hours, come find me if you're bleeding. Never mind, just pick up that bandaid over there on the picnic table, but ONLY if you need it! Responsibility!" What their kid actually hears, "blah blah blah RELEASE THE KRAKEN!!! THERE WILL BE BLOOD blah blah blah! HAVE FUN, WHATEVER FUN MEANS TO YOU, YOU HAVE IT!"
They think a playground equals a public school education. "Here ye shall enter mid-morning, just a child, and in six hours time, shall emerge polite, refined, and one day closer to Harvard!"
These are the UN of parents. There will be peace, harmony, and someone else can always step in and handle it.

I don't want to step in and handle your feral cat-child-it. I'm over here trying to wrangle a two year old who's main mantra in life right now is, "What Would Curious George Do?" Inevitably, our two animal children will meet ever so briefly over by the sand pit whereupon yours shoves mine, for no reason at all. I can understand self-defense or if my son said you looked fat in those pants, but I'm pretty sure I saw none of that. Ya know. Cause I was watching, and he's only a two year old boy trying to show off his new hot wheels car. Here we go again. I, the lone adult in the situation, will pick up my crying toddler while yours scampers off into the bushes, hissing, "My preciousssssss!"

The last time I pushed someone was during recess in 2nd grade. Brandon. I pushed him off the swing after he stole it from me and said, "Sorry, babe." Of course, he totally deserved it. He cried, and I felt kinda bad and then Ms. Watson our recess monitor found out and I felt actually bad...in detention. My bullying days began and ended that day. A fleeting attempt, at best. I wonder though, if no authority had discovered my thirst for vengeance, would I still be pushing male chauvinists off of swing sets today? I mean, they totally deserve it.

...

The other morning at JJ Jump, we were stuck with a dreaded #3. A dreaded numero tres in the confines of a bouncy house. I'm not getting paid enough for this. My son would pick up a ball and across the room she hopped to steal it away and then body slam him to the floor AND then laugh maniacally. At first, I was all, "Haha! You silly rabbit! Be careful!" After the seventh purposeful attack though, I really wanted to say, "HEY! Leave my kid alone! By the way, there's no Santa Clause, it's just your parents. Wherever they are."
Eventually, Josiah was terrified of her and would leap into my arms for safety every time she even so much as glanced at him. (After she didn't listen to him while he wagged his finger saying, "No no no! I don't like that! Be nice.")

My optimism slowly faded.

"Maybe she's trying to play with you?
"Basketball? She's definitely trying to play basketball?
"Football?"
"Krav Maga?"
"How about you go grab the other ball?"
"How about the other other ball?"
"Let's just play in this corner."
"Ok. Let's just play in that corner."
"Tell her, 'No pushing please!'"
"Forget the please, forget the please, just say NO!"
"Son, sometimes bad things happen to good people..."
"With great power comes great responsibility."
"Yep, she's just the spawn of satan, I mean, a #3."

Eventually, eventually! her father comes over to check on how things are going. Oh, so the devil does wear hawaiian shirts and white socks with Birkenstocks. As he scans the aftermath of her bouncy house reign of terror, "Having fun, princess?" He looks at the battered children emerging from their hiding places, and I swear he says, "Looks like things are getting rough in there! Keep having funnnnnn!" Then...he...disappears. Before I can say, "Princess? C'mon, you mean, Sith Lord Darth Revan, right?" *mic drop*

He has vanished. Presumably back to his Iron Throne, while the battlefield action on air resumes.

Right on cue, the heavens part and a #1 floats over to the group of cowering two year olds. Extending a tie dyed rubber ball peacefully to my son, she says, "Here you go! Can you try and catch it?"

Our savior has arrived, wearing a Hello Kitty shirt nonetheless.


All is well in Playground Kingdom once more.
Until, tomorrow.


xoxo

{Bon Bon}

www.bonnie.com

{my first profile pic on Facebook. sassy}

I remember, ahem, "back in the day," (and I can legitimately say that now because I just watched the "Kids React to: Walkmans" video and I felt legitimately "back in the day" legit old), when our creaky dial-up internet would connect me to my sparkly (literally) new MySpace page. With a continually rotating top 12 friends and an entire narcissistic About Me paragraph, including several choice cerebral musings about taking the road less traveled AND IT HAS MADE ALL THE DIFFERENCE, yes, all the difference at the age of 15, my entrance into social media had begun. 

By the Fall of 2006, my college dorm room was set up and my graduation laptop was constantly logged in Facebook mode. I mean, homework mode. kinda homework mode. I'm a SAHM now, so we can, you know, laugh about it later...now.

And now, well, now I have an iPhone. 
My parents lost me in the middle of Target when I was two and found me crying in the entertainment section, surrounded by a wall of televisions blaring Ursula's face in the finale scene of The Little Mermaid, and then fast forward about seven months ago when I left my phone at a restaurant table. The fear was palpable in both those scenarios. Enough said.

Between Blogger, Pinterest, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, one really intense Candy Crush phase and recently signing up for Clash of Clans because my husband needs my Elixir (don't ask), and definitely the PBS kids app, I'm overwhelmed! Mainly surprised my right wrist doesn't have carpal tunnel yet.

Every single day there is something thrust smack dab in my face. Buy this! Make this! Eat this! Wear this! Learn this! Read this! Go this! Like this! Cute this! Look this! Viral this! Trend this! This! This! #THIS! This is exhausting just to read. Let it be officially stated though, if you post a photo of your cute child, I will not be able to like it ENOUGH. My stone heart is easily crumbled by those baby thighs. That sounds weird, so we are moving on! 

In 2014 alone, a majority of us will appear as paleo-lifestyle-ethically-sourced-coffee-roasting-curate-conscious-yogi-fueled-hypnobirthing-herbalist-gardening-vsco-filtering-francophiles. They have us weaving damn tapestries now. I know, because I made one and it's hanging in the living room. All this to say: I am one of the "they." I've lived in Portland most of my life, so I feel like this is more of an innate thing rather than trend-conditioned. I'm still open to theories. 


Eight years of (almost) daily online interaction later, and I honestly don't know though.
I'm constantly asking myself, "Why am I sharing this right now?" Is social media my way to be seen on a daily basis? Am I being validated and connected through the glass screen? Finding inspiration or lamenting aspiration? If I bake gluten-free chia kombucha kelp cookies and don't Instagram it, did it really happen? 

(The answer is yes. But they were probably my grandmother's chocolate chip oatmeal cookies with a first ingredient of: all the butter in your fridge, melted. And I WILL eat them for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for an entire week straight)

There are many of you that I have never met in real life and yet, I know the most intimate of life's details including: what your kitchen backsplash looks like, what you made for dinner yesterday, if we have matching shoes from Target, your favorite coffee drink, who your grandmother is...
This is the new normal. "Hi! I just met you...and I already know everything about you."  

(Not normal: the majority of Instagram accounts found in the "popular" page. 
If you are over the age of seven and your photo gallery is 99% #selfies...that's an entirely different blog post) 
...

During my senior year of high school, a seemingly shy girl in a different class that I didn't "know" friended me on MySpace. For several weeks straight, I would sign into my account and there would be a cheerful message, out of the blue, from her. The back and forth online interaction gradually grew into her opening up about school troubles, relationship worries, you know, all that fun high school stuff. I'd listen, offer advice, give encouragement, basically, channel my inner Oprah and hit "reply." 

And then the strangest thing would happen. 

I'd run into her on campus, the following day, and it was like we had never talked. I mean, technically, we hadn't. 
She still couldn't figure out that face-to-face friendship. 
Yet, she still wanted to be heard. 


We all do. 


xoxo

{Bon Bon}

What Makes a Home

{Design Philosophy: Approachable meets inspirational with equal parts form and function and a dash of personality, plus a few dust bunnies} 

   Recently I was having a conversation with my friend Em about how to decorate a house. How do you make your space comfortable, livable, and real all the while, maintaining a certain "je ne sais quoi?" Since we both have highly active toddler tornados inhabiting our home-atmospheres, that "je ne sais quoi" usually means piles of toys that can be quickly swept away morning, afternoon, evening, and especially, right before company arrives. 

   About once a month, I'll even have an almost Pinterest-worthy place with carefully curated stacks of books, wiped down baseboards, and empty laundry baskets/washer/dryer. 

Not counting the hidden pile of clothes stuffed in a suitcase under the bed, 'cause that's just always gonna be there. 

For about 20 minutes (or 2 hours if the tiny tornado is sleeping), the hardwood floors are gleaming and the pillows artfully plumped. Only the pretty stuff is out on my kitchen counters. The ugly toaster oven can stay; he makes a mean pizza bagel and I definitely have a soft spot for pizza bagels. 

   This! THIS is a home! Clean, tucked-away, and perfect. 

   About once a month, I almost believe it. 

Then a certain someone scribbles on the wall with a dry erase marker while we are on Skype with his Auntie Lana. 

...

   My house would be sooooooo much better with that new EVERYTHING from [insert favorite store].(I happen to be "Target budget with ABC Carpet & Home taste.") Well, yeah, technically it would. The clouds might even part for a few seconds, baby angels playing harps, time stands still, and peace on earth. Have you seen those rugs?! As much as I appreciate, (oh so appreciate), a beautiful Apartment Therapy photo shoot, no amount of stuff, (or mid-century modern lack thereof), will ever ever ever make my house the complete home. 

   I don't remember what my parents' living room arrangement was like back in 1993, (we did have a gingham sofa, so, you can imagine), but I do remember leaping off the staircase onto the sofa while the railing was being installed. 

I have no clue what kind of stovetop Em's mom had in her kitchen, but I DO remember that one time (and last time) she experimented with an orange chicken recipe. 

   Years later, and I'm still laughing. 

   That is what I want my home to represent. 

Building on those memories of community, hospitality, and warmth. 

There might always be an unfurnished area that we are "working on," a comfy old rocking chair meant for cuddles instead of (Instagram) "likes," and definitely my fair share of failed recipes. 

[Insert all those sappy heart cliche things here]...  

that's what makes it a home. 

xoxo

{Bon Bon}

Why I Chose to be a Stay At Home Mom.

(I'm not curing cancer but I'm not eating bonbons all day...usually)

   
   Recently my husband and I switched up our health/life insurance plans, (because after making a human being and purchasing a house AND successfully keeping a potted plant alive during the majority of the summer it just seemed like the next logical thing to check off of our grownup list), and of course like most things on the grownup list, it involved some paperwork.

   Filling out my personal history and medical background wasn't too difficult. I'm generally average on the health spectrum, never smoke, mysterious biological tree due to adoption=check "N/A" on all the scary things, and azythromicin gives me a purple rash. Done. What's my prize? A standard co-pay, Yay!

 Only one little fill-in-the-blank was standing in my way: "Occupation:"___________

   Glancing over at Daniel's paper as if I could cheat and copy his "Civil Engineer" answer, my palms were beginning to sweat and that blank kept blankety blanking at me. 

Awww, what the Blank!
What am I? 

   SAHM? Domestic Engineer? Jane of all Trades? Coordinator of Chaos? Soccer Mom To-Be? 
They all sounded cheesy, try-hard, and gloomy. 

   (Which could almost be a perfect description of motherhood, just add some PURE JOY! + more cheesy) 

   Usually when a conversation steers towards the "And, what do you do?" portion, I am met with either congratulations or pity. So, let me get this straight. I might be doing the most important job in the universe!!! Or I miiiight be selling my soul to the ghost of Walt Disney. It's a frankly perplexing and honestly comical spectrum.

   Ever since our son entered the world almost two years ago, I have been his main caretaker Monday-Friday, 8-5, (unless you count the frantic afternoon call to Daniel's office lamenting how I Windex blasted a spider and it just won't die),  no holidays, and getting paid in sticky peanut butter kisses. While my husband calculates roadway designs for the greater Portland area and banters around the water cooler about last night's "Walking Dead" episode, my day involves calculating a new track design for Thomas and his musical caboose on the train table,(yes. that musical caboose. I should've listened to you Amazon reviews), and negotiating why Peanut M&Ms are never a wise breakfast choice, (for a two year old, 'cause I totally just had a handful with my morning coffee...again). 

   Honestly, some days, the hardest project I have to tackle is figuring out how to begin a new tub of Clorox wipes. Twisting that first one through the bear trap of an opening. It's not rocket science, but sometimes my finger gets scraped and then the bleach stings...so...yeah, HARD!

   This is my life. And of course, like most things in life, it involved some choices. 

   Falling in love and getting married wasn't too difficult. Even giving birth was enjoyable, (because I'm a high pain tolerance hypnobirthing weirdo who could somehow tap into inner Jedi-labor powers. Plus, I really wanted to be done with the whole thing and eat Burgerville). 

   Marriage, parenthood, and staying at home were all good choices for me. It involves a whole lotta love. 
They were also hard choices for me. The whole lotta love requires a heckofa amount of selflessness. 

   I was so selfless. Once. That time the flu knocked me down and I still managed to put together a Cars puzzle for my son. Self to the Less.
Well, you get the picture. The selfless lessons are going to be a lifelong course.  

   In my homemaking tongue, I could wax on about how a freshly folded pile of laundry glints a tear in my eye, baking from scratch in my pink KitchenAid mixer centers my soul, and the giggles of an innocent toddler brings fresh life into the room. 
I could also just as much wane about my lack of privacy in the bathroom, the incessant repetitious natures of theme songs on PBS, and the peace and quiet that rarely trickles past my eardrums. 

   "Staying at Home" instead of "Going to Work...for Someone other than your Family or Maybe you Own a Family Business so You Double Work for your Family and I Guess You could Have a Home Office That you Stay Home and Double Work at Home." Is that what it's called now? 

   Well, I guess that first thing is what I chose. 
Simply, because it works best for my family.


   Here's what will happen the next time I see that wide open space. 
"Occupation:" The Best and Being Really Good at It Even Though It's Hard and Sometimes I Don't Feel so Important but I am and there Won't Ever Be Anyone else Like Me, so Suck it Trebek! 


   I think most women could agree on wanting to do that. 
Whatever that "job" may be. 

   Paperwork is dumb. 


xoxo

{Bon Bon}