Billie: “Apparently today was ‘hat day’ at school for Autism Acceptance week. But I didn’t wear a hat because they didn’t call it ‘hat day.’ They didn’t even call it ‘crazy hat day.’ You know what they called it?”

Doug: “What?”

Billie: “They called it ‘Hat’s Off for Autism’ So of course I didn’t wear a hat because it said ‘Hat’s Off!’ It was right there in the title! No. Hats. If they wanted us to wear hats they shoulda called it ‘Hat’s On!”

Doug: “Yea, they should’ve definitely been more literal with the messaging especially for Autism week.”

Billie: “EXACTLY. None of the autistic kids wore hats! How are you going to have a week for Autism and not communicate how autistic children need? IT’S RIDICULOUS.”

Doug: “Sure is, Billie. You tell ’em.”

Billie: “And dad?”

Doug: “Yes, love?”

Billie: “I had a really good hat in mind, too.”

Doug: “I’ll bet you did, Bills. I’ll bet you did.”

You Can Have This TP When You Ply It From My Cold, Dead, Fingers

Billie: “Hey, mom, I’ve been bringing our nice, soft toilet paper to school and replacing it with the thin scratchy stuff they give us.”

Doug: “Please don’t take our toilet paper, dude.”

Billie: “I’m doing the public a service–”

Doug: “It’s expensive-”


You Can Have This TP When You Ply It From My Cold, Dead, Fingers

Artistic license suspended.

Billie: “Look, Mom! I made a sculpture of you!”
Me: “OMG THAT’S SO COOL! Wait. Is sculpture me pregnant?”
Billie: “What? No, those are your boobs.”
Me: “Why are my boobs down by my hips?”
Billie: “I gotta make ’em how I see ’em, Mom.” *Sighs heavily* “Gotta make ’em how I see ’em.”

I’m moving far away. To an island somewhere. Going off the grid completely. Good luck with school and life, Billie. Catch you on the flip.

Artistic license suspended.

The Lowest Form Of Humor

Me: “So you know how I referred my friend to our doctor?”

Doug: “Yea.”

Me: “Well, she told me this story where she went in to see him and she made a pun about something and he looked her dead in the face and said, ‘Puns are the lowest form of humor.'”

Doug: “Oh. Oh my God. Those are fighting words to you and your family.”

Me: “Right?! So I thought about it- I really went over all my past interactions with this man and I realized I’ve never seen him laugh. Like, I guess I had never noticed because back when I went to him I was severely concussed so I wasn’t trying to bust out my comedy-”

Doug: “‘Bust out’ your comedy??”

Me: “But I took Billie there last week and he didn’t even react to Billie’s humor. And, like, how do you not laugh at a 9 year old who makes geriatric death jokes? That’s hysterical.”

Doug: “I mean, maybe he’s more subtle–”

Me: “Nah, dude. He’s got no sense of humor. So now, of course, I have to test this theory.”

Doug: “Oh no.”

Me: “I wanna see how far I can take this. Billie’s got an appointment next week so I’ma start workshopping my best stuff now.”


Me: “Well, I don’t know–”

Billie: “I got this! I’ma crack all the jokes.”

Doug: “This might not end well.”

Billie: “I’ll be like, ‘HEY BUDDY!'”
*sticks butt in air and pulls down pants*

Doug: “Yup. Called it.”

The Lowest Form Of Humor

At Least We Have Goals

Billie (age 9) is still awake, tortured by the usual thoughts that plague young children at this hour (and this hour alone, it seems πŸ˜πŸ™„).

B: “Mom, I can’t sleep. I’m worried.”
Me: “About what, love?”
B: “I’m worried that there’s nothing to look forward to. Great things have happened this weekend. But there’s nothing planned for the future. I can’t sleep knowing there’s nothing to look forward to.”
Me: “Um. Ok. How ’bout this- go write down 5 things you’d like to happen this week. Then write down five things you’d like to happen in the next ten years. This will give us some goals to look forward to- and we will conquer them together. Sound good?”
B: (smiles) “Sounds great!”


I have been played y’all. BIG TIME.

**Anyone got Betty White connects?? Because, like, I feel like my whisky soaked mouth just wrote a check my sober ass can’t cash.**

At Least We Have Goals

Playing This Game ‘Til The Bear Dogs Come Home

Me: (squints) “What is that statue supposed to be? A bear? A dog?? A bear dog!!!”

Doug: “A cow, sweetie. It’s a cow.”

Me: “Well, if you were to ask me to describe a cow without using the word ‘cow’ I would definitely call it a ‘bear dog’ and not be wrong.”

Doug: “No, you would still be wrong.”

Billie: “I LOVE THIS IDEA. Like, an elephant is a whale and a horse!”

Doug: “Billie, let’s not–”

Billie: “A possum is a rat beaver!”

Doug: “Okay, that’s quite enou–”


Doug: (to me) “What have you done??”


Playing This Game ‘Til The Bear Dogs Come Home

Refined Tastes

We walk into the restaurant. They hand Billie a kid’s menu. She says she’ll probably order from the adult menu.

They say, “You sure? There’s grilled cheese! There’s chicken strips!”

“Is there steak on the kid’s menu?” She asks.


“Is there crab?” She asks.

Still no.

“Is that stuff on the adult menu?”


“Great. I’ll have the New York Strip Steak with buttered crab on top. With fries. Ooh! And sauteed spinach! Thanks so much!”


Just what.

Refined Tastes


Doug: “Your bangs are on point, B.”
Billie: “Thank you. The hair lady tried to talk me out of them.”
Doug: “She did?”
Billie: “Yea! She kept saying, ‘Are you sure?’ and ‘They won’t look like the ones you’re used to seeing.’ and I was like, ‘I know, lady. That’s why I want them.” And she kept saying, ‘Oh, I’m not pushing you to not do it. It’s just they might be uneven,’ and ‘I don’t want you to be disappointed,” and I was sticking to my guns, Dad–”
Doug: “You stick to thoseΒ guns, Billie!”
Billie: “–And I told her, ‘Nope. I still want them’ and she kept saying, ‘Are you sure? Are you sure?’-”
Doug: “Heck YES you were sure!”
Billie: “Indeed I was! And now look at me!”
Doug: “Look at you!!”
Billie: “I’m gorgeous!”
Doug: “You’re gorgeous!”
Billie: “I told her, dumb lady.”
Doug: “Yes you did!!! You told her!! I’m so proud of you, Billie. You are the best!”
Billie: “And that lady?”
Doug: “Could learn a thing or two from you. You know style.”
Billie: “Yup!”
Doug: “Yup.”


How To Make Dinner: A Tale Of Love And Loss

You take out the chicken.
Your kid has scraped her knees.
By the time you get to her she’s smeared her own blood on her cheeks like war paint…
And is standing on your corner triumphantly screaming, “THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE.”
Grab kid.
Apologize to neighbors.
Clean kid from tip to toe while explaining blood born pathogens.
Get back to chicken.
The landscaper knocks on the door and asks if it’s normal for your kid and her friends to dress in feather boas and church hats and scream, “We ARE ZE GOLDEN GIRLS!” to all passerby.
Of course that’s normal, you reply. That’s a Tuesday.
Your landscaper takes a second to process this information before informing you that it appears as though your dog ate 5 of your front lawn’s sprinkler heads.
Add checking dog’s stool and possible vet visit to your list.
Landscaper side eyes the kids as they are now singing ‘Little Girl, Big City’ in a choreographed feather boa dance.
Thank landscaper for the information.
Landscaper leaves.
Go back to prepping chicken.
Kid and friends need water.
You show them where their water bottles are (in the same place they always have been) and return to your chicken.
Water floods the floor.
One kid cries. One kid laughs. One kid starts denying culpability in a Russian accent.
You begin to clean up the water.
Kid one: “Miss Heather I need a diaper for my Teletubby.”
Kid two: (in Russian accent) “In Russia we ‘ave no diapers. In Russia YOU are ze diaper.”
Politely tell kids to get out of your kitchen.
You get back to prepping the chicken.
You hear your kid scream.
You abandon the chicken and rush outside.
You slip on the water that wasn’t completely picked up and go ass over tea kettle on your kitchen floor.
Your kid is still screaming.
Your hip is definitely fucked but you go all hulk mom mode, get up, and rush to your kid.
“Oh, sorry, Mom. It’s just this really cool leaf I found.”
Hobble back to chicken.
Kid and friends decide to remodel living room.
Where did the chicken go?
There’s a couch in your kitchen.
“Mom- how attached are you to the T.V.?”
You forgot the sides. Is your kid going to just eat chicken?
Your partner gets home.
Your Partner: “Why are you limping?”
Your kid: “What’s burning?”
Have wine.
You don’t drink wine.
Have more wine.
Order pizza.

*This is a mostly entirely almost all the way based on a true story that definitely probably happened tonight.*

How To Make Dinner: A Tale Of Love And Loss