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dylan-with-pigtails.jpgIt was a very exciting morning around here. 3 year-old Dylan was getting ready for her first solo sleepover at Bubbie and Zaydie’s (her grandparent’s) house. How fun! We load up her backpack, kiss kiss, hug hug and she’s out the door.

Me: Bye honey. (She leaves with my husband Rick who is dropping her off.)

Door Shuts.



1 year-old Summer is looking at me like I’m a jackass. For God’s sake woman, it’s only 24 hours and that neck pinching, chatter box, crazy girl will back. Summer has a point (if that is indeed her point – there is some guesswork involved here).

A night away from Little Miss Bossy isn’t such a bad thing. And she is BOSSY. For instance, every time we use a public restroom, Dylan wants me to look away and cover my ears so I can’t see or hear her pee. I’m like one of those hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil monkeys. THEN, and only when she has deemed it the appropriate time, I’m supposed to turn around and say, “Yay!” It’s all very carefully orchestrated by Miss Dylan, the porcelain goddess.

Dylan: I peed. Ok, say “yay.”

Me: YAY!

Dylan: NO. Too loud. Say it softer.

Me: Yay.

Dylan: Now clap.

Me: Ok that’s enough. (I’m not a trained chimp.) I’m proud of you. Let’s wipe and wash your hands.

So a little peace might be nice.

summer-with-hat.jpgAnd it is. Summer can’t believe she has the run of the pad and no one is tearing purses or baby dolls or wooden fruit out of her hands. For Rick and me, caring for one child (which at one time seemed beyond overwhelming) is now almost relaxing. There are no diversions. Just Summer. She seems to relish the attention.

Meanwhile, over at Bubbie and Zaydie’s in New Jersey, the girl who normally eats two bites of toast for breakfast, devours two waffles, an apple and a piece of challah toast in the morning. She is delightful. Perfectly behaved. No bossy girl to be found. Anywhere.

Before long (has it really been 24 hours?), our big girl hurricane is back.

But I must say, it feels good to be back in the storm. Below, a self-portrait by the regionally recognized, at times temperamental but promising young talent, photographer Dylan Reece Folbaum.


mama bird notes

So how do you explain the death of a family pet to a 3 year-old? Click on askamama and help a fellow mama out.

The results are here. What are you all striving to accomplish in the hopefully great o8? 40 percent of you want to shed the extra weight. Another 20 percent want to get organized. 13 percent want to break a bad habit. Another 13 percent want to learn something new. 7 percent are focused on getting out of debt and a final 7 percent of you want to spend more time with your family. As for me, I’ve already forgotten my New Year’s resolution.

Click on your mama says what? to take our latest poll. This week, we want to know what happens AFTER the fight.

And coming very soon… our January mama bird giveaway package. The chance to win cool, free stuff coming your way.



michael-cera.jpgWell, I’m quite relieved I’m not the only one crushing on “Superbad” and “Juno’s” Michael Cera. Not in an “oh my god you’re almost 40/ Mrs. Robinson kind of way” (well, maybe a tidbit of Mrs. Robinson). But more in a he’s so damn talented and I just loving watching that charming, awkwardly attractive kid on screen. My favorite Michael Cera quote from Juno is “You would like be the meanest wife ever.” Wait.. WHY is that my favorite quote? Hmm…

Note to my husband: Don’t even think of commenting.

Note to self: Reflect on subconscious meaning during my next ashtanga yoga class.

My yoga instructor caught me daydreaming like a 10th grade space cadet in class the other day. So he says, “focus on the breath.” Yoga dude, that is so not the way to motivate me to pay attention. Tell me to focus on the sexy football coach Eric Taylor from “Friday Night Lights.” Now I’m with you. Focus on chocolate croissants. So super yum and only 15, 832 calories. But the breath? You lost me at inhale. Oh-so-tediously boring. I’m a pitiful yogi.

I am, however, the master of 1 year-old Summer’s mattress. It all started with a major poop-a-thon in her crib. A nasty number 2 that leaked out of her diaper and then she wiped on her face, body and sheets. It reminded me of this style maven blond toddler I used to know (she relocated to the Golden State) that loved to undo her diaper and have a fabulous bm party at nap time. Finally, her mother had to duct tape her diaper on before naps. What a genius mama.

So clearly, I had to wash Summer’s sheet and mattress cover. Easy enough. THEN I had to put it back on. What the F*&U#! I was panting and heaving and sweating trying to stuff that mattress back into its cover. I put it on four separate times but it always looked wrong, never lying flat with weird bulges.

Summer is crying the entire time because she wants to climb ON the mattress while I perform this unscheduled aerobic activity. But I persevered and (despite some obviously inappropriate outbursts) got that stupid foam mattress in that even stupider cover. I am the champion! Of a toddler mattress! Go me. Go me. Ok, it sounds way less impressive now that I write it down.

Apparently, things go much more smoothly when my husband Rick is in charge. I came home from dropping 3 year-old Dylan at preschool the other morning and I hear how Summer took her FIRST step and made these AMAZING, hilarious fish faces. How long was I gone? Did she learn to read the New York Times too?! Oh, just the NY Post. O.k. now I don’t feel so bad. Well, I conquered the mattress. Yeah, that was all me boyfriend. All me.

And I’m probably really late to the party on this one but did any of you see the clip of Michael Cera getting fired from Superbad? I’m sure it was just an internet marketing ploy but still tremendously entertaining. Click here and tell me what you think. Also, details to come on the new mama bird Michael Cera fan club. You know I’m kidding… right?!

mama bird notes

If you haven’t checked out drooling over this in awhile, take a peak for my latest faves. And I’d love to hear what you’re drooling over these days. Send me an email at kelcey@mamabirddiaries.com.

Also, if you have a question and want feedback from all the brilliant mamas out there, email it to me and I’ll post in under askamama. Questions can be anonymous. One mama needs your help right now dealing with the death of their family cat. Share your tips on how to handle this difficult subject with a child.

And don’t forget to take our latest mama poll. Click on your mama says what?


I have absolutely no drug radar. None.

So on New Year’s Day – oh wait – minor backtrack to New Year’s Eve.

My New Year’s Eve, despite all my belly aching, turned out damn good. I drank vino and watched “Superbad” with my gal-pal-college-consultant-it-girl Abby. I was cackling so hard with laughter, I didn’t even notice when 2007 morphed into 2008. So cheers to that. And now, like another mama bird reader, I have fallen hard for Michael Cera. That kid is too adorable.

Back to New Year’s Day. My hubby Rick wants to do a family breakfast thing. So around 9 am, we load the girls into the stroller and head to our local neighborhood diner. On the way, we pass a girl, still dressed in her New Year’s Eve wear and still boldly wearing her 2008 glasses, trying to hail a cab. McLovin that (This is not a McDonald’s reference. Please rent “Superbad.” And also, please tell me why it’s called “Superbad”). Suddenly, I am lost in my own walk of shame memories. Ah… that long walk from a fraternity house to your dorm room. Smudged make-up, headache, clothes that suddenly seem too dark, too short and too tight. Oh, the sweet, precious college memories.

I’m jolted back to my husband and two girls. We have arrived at the diner. We are seated right next to a group of 3. They seem to be wrapping up their New Year’s partying with big breakfast plates. And one of the guys is STARING at us. He just keeps looking at us. It’s getting awkward.

Guy at next table: I’m sorry I’m staring at you all but I can’t help it. You are just such a beautiful family.

Me: Thanks so much. (Rick and I smile and return to our breakfast. I’m thinking, WHAT A SWEET GUY! I mean, I’m not wearing any make-up except for a dash of concealer and I’m in Juicy sweats but I must still look good. Plus, the love of our family must just radiate all around us. This guy is SO nice to notice.)

Guy at the next table: Really, you are all just so beautiful. Just a beautiful family.

Me: Oh, thanks so much. (Ok, he’s laying it on a bit thick but still, the sentiment is perfectly lovely. And he’s clearly just overtaken by the magnificence of us.)

Rick: (under his breath) He’s on drugs.

What?! Oh snap… Of course, Rick’s right. This guy is totally on drugs. Damn. Crap.

Speaking of beautiful, Rick was off from work on Wednesday and we decided to utilize our sitter and have a day date. Fun, right? Well, after a brief (or-maybe-not-so-brief) argument at Pastis over his endless LOVE for fatty foods, we did buck up and enjoy checking out some art galleries in Chelsea.

And there is some crazy, weird, cool stuff going on at those galleries. I leave you with this photo from Boyd Webb, currently at the Sonnabend gallery on West 22nd Street. Is this guy nursing from a giant, green, crusty earth breast?


Umm… yeah… I have no idea. Maybe if I was on drugs, I would get it.


Not so long ago my husband Rick and I decided we were in the mood for a little wild rumpusing.

So we put the kids in bed. Rick went off to create some romantic ambiance in our bedroom while I ordered take-out sushi. No, raw fish is not part of our sexual repertoire. Ick. It’s just that I was starving and deliveries take a while. So I placed the order and joined Rick in our bedroom.

A few minutes later, I couldn’t concentrate. I started to worry about the timing. I realized the sushi might be ready before we were. So I put money in an envelope and taped it to the outside of our apartment door with a note that read, “This is the money for the sushi. Just leave the order here. No need to knock or ring. Thank you.”

Problem solved. Back to business in the bedroom.


Me: What was that? (I quickly pull the covers up).

Rick: I don’t know. Probably something out in the hall.

3 year-old Dylan suddenly appears in the doorway of our bedroom. She quizzically surveys the scene, staring at the candles, the dimmed chandelier, Justin Timberlake getting his sexy back on the ipod and her parents in bed, with the covers yanked up to their necks. She mentions none of this.

Dylan: There’s pee in my pull-up.

Rick: Ok honey. (Rick gets himself together under the covers and bounds out of bed. I lay there motionless, just staring at our toddler, fearing she might ask questions. She does not. Rick changes her pull-up and quickly guides her back to her bedroom).

He returns and once again we attempt to get OUR sexy back.


Me: What is THAT?

Rick: I don’t know.


Me: I think it’s the take-out guy knocking on the door. Maybe he doesn’t speak English. Maybe he can’t read the note.

Naked Rick gets up, throws a towel around his waist and answers the door. It is indeed the sushi take-out guy, who does not read English. But apparently the language barrier is no barrier now. He flashes a knowing smile at my tussled husband, takes the money and hands over the bag.

Rick returns. At this point, I am laughing. He is too. But we are committed to this. We will make this happen.

And we do.

The sushi is great too.


I’ve been feeling a bit in the garbage dumps lately. My milk free boobs are shrinking faster then 1 year-old Summer can devour a roll. My husband has noticed too. This is a recent conversation.

Rick: (Staring at my chest) You’re right. Your boobs are smaller.

Me: Yeah, thanks (I respond glumly).

Rick: They’re beautiful.

Me: O.k. (Still glum).

Rick: Did I say something wrong?

Me: Very few women want to be told their boobs are getting smaller.

Rick: But you pointed it out this morning.

Me: Yes, but that doesn’t mean I’m happy about it.

Rick: Oh.

I start to wonder if my breasts could get small enough that my poochy mama belly could poke out further than my chest. Sadly, probably already the case. I decide my state is too fragile to investigate further.

I’m also in a funk over New Year’s. And then it’s a double Debbie downer that I even care a tidbit about New Year’s Eve. My husband is working so he’s doing his thing. As for me, if I stay in, capital L on the forehead. If I go out, mega moolah up the wazooh. And for what? That stupid, suspicious feeling that everyone MUST be having more fun than me. Of course, they aren’t. But they MUST be… right?! This is the time of year, when I wish I was a superstar pop diva. That way, I could ring in the new year Vegas style, charging big beans to sing all my greatest hits. You would love my stuff from the 70’s.

You know what is coming in the New Year? All those plans we put off. December is so stuffed with obligations and merriment, that many of us love to to throw these words around with everyone and the mailman:

“Yes! We’ll make plans in the New Year. Perfect! We’ll absolutely put something on the calendar in January. Happy Holidays.” With a wave and a smile, we are off.

This is what I wish I had the guts to say:

“Yes! We’ll make plans in the New Year. If not, 2008… 2009 at the latest. Worst case scenario, 2010. Happy Holidays!” With a wave and a smile, I am off.

I’m also bummed my super sassy sister Quinn went back to her home in Memphis. (Editorial note: Not to be confused with my extra sassy friend Liz who lives in New York. If I keep throwing the term “sassy” around, I will provide a sassy “who’s who” directory for your convenience). Everything is just more fun with Quinny around. She’s the kind of girl that can make you smile about small boobs and lame New Year’s Eve plans.

But no need for me to cry about any of this. As 3 year-old Dylan said to me recently, “Mommies don’t cry. They just say no.”

Well, actually Dylan, sometimes they do both.

mama bird notes

Have you met Viv and Ingrid? Oh, you must. Click on drooling over this.

The results are in. So how much tv does your kid really watch everyday? 28% of you say no evil boob tube. Another 28% commit to one hour or less. 11% draw the line at 1 to 2 hours. 28% of you allow your kids to enjoy the small screen 2 to 3 hours a day. And 5% say as much as the child wants.

Take our latest mama poll. 2008 is a bouncy, fresh start – so what is your New Year’s resolution? Come on, share mamas! Just click on your mama says what?

Finally, help another mama out. Any creative ideas on getting kids to eat at least a LITTLE more? Click on askamama.

kelcey kintner


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