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I probably would have spent the past couple days stressing about packing, traveling without Rick (he’s meeting us in Italy) and 14 year-old pilots. But instead I spent a whole day in the ER because nearly 4 year-old Dylan ate an entire bottle of Hyland’s homeopathic baby teething tablets for breakfast.

I really wish she had just had a bagel.

Unfortunately, these teething tablets (which have no child safety cap) contain a tiny amount of a toxic ingredient called belladonna.

Belladonna sounds so pretty and lovely, doesn’t it? According to Dylan’s ER doc, not-so-pretty.

Except for some flushed cheeks, Dylan is quite perky and a-ok at the hospital but they want to monitor her vitals. Dylan is certainly doing a whole lot better than the guy across from us who had some kind of altercation with a co-worker earlier that morning.

And he has knife wounds to prove it.

And he is handcuffed.

And three cops are questioning him (No, they are not particularly hot. Well, one is ok.)

I am trying to keep Dylan very entertained and distracted while this guy explains to the police that the knife fight at his workplace is so not his fault. I actually sort of believe him.

We witness all of this because the pediatric unit is under renovation. Thankfully, a very nice nurse quickly moves us to a more quiet, less knife focused part of the ER.

Cheery Dr. Chris (last name omitted so he doesn’t google himself and find my blog) explains that we will be here in the hospital for the next 6 hours. And that’s when I realize that I really, really need a tampon.

“So I’ll be back to check on Dylan in a little bit. If there’s anything you need, please just let me know,” Dr. Chris says exhuberantly.

“Ok thanks,” I reply. “Umm… well there is one thing… I could really use a tampon,” I ask in my very hush hush tampon voice. Why am I so embarrassed? Don’t these doctors perform rectal exams while drinking their morning coffee? I can’t imagine that the idea of a woman having her period is really going to send them into a nervous frenzy.

“Let me see what I can do!” Chris responds with a bit too much enthusiasm. And he dashes off to hunt for tampons.

Turns out, there are no tampons.

Just maxi pads in this hospital.

But I’m informed that the nurses are asking around. And before long, two nurses hand me a couple tampons. I am so ridiculously grateful. Dr. Chris even stops by to make sure I’m “all set” with the “issue” we discussed. Yes. Yes. All set. Got my tampons.

Meanwhile, Dylan is rocking the ER… grilled cheese, french fries, toys provided in part by the Starlight Starbright Children’s Foundation and videos. Except for the EKG, she is loving this place.

By 4 pm, cheery Dr. Chris gives the allclear and we head home. Rick and I promise to never again leave any kind of medicine within the kids’ reach. Dylan promises to lay off the teething tablets and stick to more traditional foods. Hope the girl likes pasta and paninis.

Quick Note: My dad is flying to Italy with me and the girls. I didn’t want you to think that I was completely insane and traveling there on my own.

I am preparing for severe Blackberry withdrawal symptoms.


Sometimes things go your way (“Project Runway” is back on the air! Thank you fashion Gods!) and sometimes things don’t (“Swingtown” looks like it’s headed for cancellation. Boo! Hiss!). If you haven’t tuned in to “Swingtown” and apparently not many people have, it’s an entertaining drama about suburban swingers (that’s couple swapping for all you innocents out there) set in the 1970s.

Damn. Rick and I are about to lose our role models for our sexy swinging disco life.

You know that’s a joke, right? Yeah, we’re way too tired to swing. But disco dancing? We’re always up for that.

I guess the show isn’t doing well in the ratings. Maybe that’s because you don’t get to see a whole lot of actual swinging going on. And the program has no reality competitions (maybe couples should swap partners for prizes or something).

The absolute best part of “Swingtown” is Jake from “Melrose Place.”

Look at the bad boy, all grown up and no longer working at Shooters (Thank you Wendi for reminding me about Jake’s glory days in MP). Now he’s a pilot! Jake – you’ve come a long way baby.

Not that Jake isn’t super skilled behind the controls of a jumbo jet, but I’m kind of glad he’s not flying my plane this weekend. My family and I are headed to Italy and once again I have pre-flight jitters. Of course, if Jake wants to rub my shoulders throughout the flight, that might actually help.

Cat suggested the homeopathic medicine, Calms Forte, to reduce my anxiety. And I also do a little investigative work on my own, to quiet my nerves. As I board the plane, I pretend to chat amicably with the flight attendants. But what I’m really doing is secretly peering into the pilot’s cabin. I like to confirm the following:

1. The pilot is not 14 years-old.

2. He or she is not drunk.

That’s pretty much the extent of my investigation.

Now those of you who know how to fly or who are married to pilots are thinking, “Kelcey, flying is completely safe. If you want to be more careful in life, stop crossing the street, while pushing a double stroller, drinking a latte, filing your nails and talking on your phone.”

Yeah, yeah, I get your point.

mama bird notes

Hey, do your kids hate dogs? Mine, too!! Click on New York City’s Moms Blog to read my latest piece.

Contributing mama Daphne Biener has a hankering for some shirtless farmers, I mean, berries. Click here to read more.

And my love-hate relationship with Abby Cadabby aside, check out these cool Sesame kicks from New Balance in drooling over this.


I’ve been pissed at Abby Cadabby for awhile.

She’s a relatively new addition to Sesame Street and the neighborhood could use a few girls in that boy muppet club, so that’s all cool. Plus I, personally, love a cute fairy dress so I don’t have an issue with her fancy schmancy, sparkly outfit.

But here’s my beef: she just seems so friggin’ dumb.

At the end of every episode, she painstakingly tries to come up with the letter and number of the day.

This is kind of how it goes (try to imagine a really high pitched, squeaky voice)…

“Oh, good you’re still here. I know it’s almost time to go but first I have something very important I’m supposed to tell you. Sesame Street was brought to you today by the letter… um. The letter… um. Do you remember? (She shakes her wand and the letter L appears over her shoulder.) There it is! That’s the letter… um, do you know what you call it again? Oh yeah, the letter L!”

I don’t want to torture you so I’ll end it there.

Not exactly a kick ass female role model, right? I know she’s only like 3 years-old but still.

So imagine my surprise when I ran into the little fairy at BlogHer. What a perfect opportunity to find out why this gal is always playing the dumb card and, perhaps, teaching other young girls to do the same.

And you know what she told me?

She says, she’s tired at the end of the day so it’s hard for her to think of things. And she wants other kids to know that it’s ok to have trouble remembering things sometimes.

And Abby Cadabby wasn’t finished with me. Oh no.

Abby went on to tell me that when she can’t remember the letter or number of the day, that gives the children at home a chance to help and chime in with the answer.


Gosh, I feel like such a schmuck. Why did I have to go and pick on some innocent, sweet pink fairy?

So do you think Abby Cadabby held a grudge?

No, she did not.

She actually told me it was good question that she had never been asked before.

And then she gave me a hug.

For a 3 year-old, she’s pretty darn smart. Now where did that Grover go? Because I have a thing or two to talk to him about.

mama bird notes
So what costs $650 and you don’t even get to pick the color? Contributing mama Jordana Bales has the answer. Click here to read more.


I am a train wreck when I’m away from my kids.

When I’m caring for Dylan and Summer, everything (diapers, snacks, water, sunscreen, you get the idea) is way way organized.

But the moment I am on my own, I don’t just take my eye off the ball, I lose the ball all together. Usually in my hotel room. Probably never to be recovered.

In San Francisco, I lost my room key numerous times, misplaced my free drink tickets (oh, the tragedy! Seriously.) and even forgot the top of my steamer. Let me just say there is a darn good reason that clothing steamers come with two parts. You really need both. They’re tricky like that.

And despite my need for a clean and orderly home in New York, this was the state of my hotel room by the end of day three in San Francisco. Crap everywhere.

I guess my organized self was on vacation.

I was quite impressed with the BlogHer conference which was incredibly organized. There were super fun perks like swag bags and shindigs and I did meet and connect with some super cool gals like, Sticking to the Point, Mom Without a Map, Freitas Family Follies, Who’s the Boss?, Mommy Needs A Cocktail, Not Just A Working Mom, Mommy Poppins, Mayberry Mom, Magpie Musing, it’s my life, Baby Faith, Savvy Auntie and londonelicious.

And, of course, there were lots of fab mums who I wanted to meet but just never found.

I definitely felt enormously overwhelmed by all the people (like a thousand). And sometimes, surrounded by the blogging masses, I just felt lonely and homesick.

So after two days of trying to be extra perky and extra funny and extra myself (only perkier and funnier), I was greatly relieved on Saturday night to meet up with this chick.

That’s Sarah. I used to hang with her in the West Village before she got all fancy and west coast on me and moved to beautiful Marin County, just outside San Francisco (damn her!). And I found out that she is pregnant with number three which rocks. So send Sarah some positive energy for her little growing baby.

After dinner, she dropped me at the airport where I had managed to upgrade myself to a first class seat at a deeply discounted rate.

And that’s when I met Aaron. My seat mate with the gold chain.

I had barely sat down when he leaned over, all sultry and Barry Whitish and said, “Hi. I’m Aaron. How are you?”

Oh crap. This is my one chance to enjoy a little first class service and I’ve got Aaron giving me his airplane rap. Of course, if he was a young hottie, I would have been completely flattered… but he wasn’t.

A few minutes later, Aaron leaned in again (and I’m not joking even one little bit) and said, “I love that book.”

REALLY? I want to believe you Aaron. I mean, I really do. Except that I’m reading a book called, “I Feel Bad About My Neck” by Nora Ephron. It’s a humorous look at being a woman and growing older. But somehow I just really doubt Aaron, with the gold chain, is reading it.

But maybe he is concerned with his neck. I shouldn’t be so quick to judge. The guy is probably completely obsessed with neck.

Aaron thankfully nodded off quickly and I turned my focus back to my book and my neck. The neck apparently goes at the age of 43 so it’s really time to start appreciating it. I only have a few years left to show this baby off.

Yup, that’s my neck. In all its glory.


So I’m sure you all are just desperate to know. After great internal debate and much soul searching, I went with the screwdriver. A perfect breakfast cocktail for the long trip to San Francisco.

And I, blissfully, watched three movies and read US Magazine (Am I the last person to find out that Lindsay Lohan is a lesbian or at least dabbling in that arena?).

After arriving in San Francisco, I caught a cab. When I’m a tourist, I’m convinced that everyone is trying to take advantage of me (I guess because of all the tourists I regularly hustle in New York City).

So I hop into the taxi and try to act all cool and San Franny as I talk to the driver.

Me: Hi. How are you? THIS visit I’m staying at the Westin (Translation: Look taxi guy, I can’t even count the number to times I’ve jetted in and out of this city so don’t try taking me in circles. I’m on to you buddy.).

Taxi Driver: Which Westin?

Me: Umm….

Taxi Driver: There are two.

Me: Ummm. Let me see. I have the address right here. Well, I had it a minute ago. Hold on, it’s right here in my calendar. Oh, the one on Dowell Street. Yes, Dowell.

Taxi Driver: Oh, you mean Powell street?

Me: Yeah, yeah that’s the one.

Boy, I really showed him. That will be the last time he tries to mess with an out-of-towner.

Actually, he just seems super nice and not at all interested in taking advantage of some dumb New York girl and he takes me directly to the hotel. Where I find this…

From my family. How incredibly sweet! I don’t want to call Dylan and Summer slackers, but I’m guessing that my husband Rick was the one who really made the flowers thing happen. I want to ask him if the flowers are organic but I just say, “thank you.” Whether organic or covered with chemicals, they sure are pretty.

As soon as I’m settled in, I want to immediately start soaking up the true San Francisco experience, so I head here:

There are three Starbucks within a two block radius of my hotel. And a lot of traffic. And many stores. You know this place sort of reminds me of somewhere familiar. Oh, wait, I’ve got it. New York City. Except with cute street cars going up steep hills.

I’m here to attend the BlogHer Conference, along with hundreds of other blogging women. Make that hundreds of blogging women I don’t know… which really scares the crap out of me. So thank goodness for this girl.

That’s Lia of Frietas Family Follies. She’s my roommate and is a super fun, sassy girl who seems to know everyone here. So I’m sticking close to her. Oh, and I’m like glue to this guy too.

Don’t you love his ‘stache? Actually, I’m not really hanging with him that much. He’s the doorman from the rockin’ Silicon Vally Moms Group party I went to last night. Do you think he uses some kind of special moustache gel? You can get back to me on that and anything you know about the Lindsay Lohan thing.

You know, just trying to stay young and current here.

kelcey kintner