Do you ever argue with yourself? I sure do. I’m a bit manic, it’s fun though. Don’t judge me.

This morning I was unloading the dishwasher and I noticed the Thomas English muffins in the cupboard as I put away a pan on the shelf above and I thought, “I miss those.”

Then as I was putting Tilly’s raw food, (recently portioned), into the refrigerator I looked to see if I had enough butter to make Barry a coffee cake for his birthday and noticed my strawberry fruit spread and thought, “I miss that too.”

Next thing I know, my tea kettle is boiling water, English muffin in the toaster and my brain says, “You’re not supposed to be eating so many carbs.”

“I’m down 40 lbs since the Mother’s Day when Bear got me the FitBit.”

“That’s not going to last if you keep using it as an excuse to eat like this!”

“I know, but it’s Bear’s birthday today.”

“What does Bear’s birthday have to do with you ‘treating YO self???'”

“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you over the sounds of the knife scraping on all these delicious nooks and crannies!”

“Ok, but don’t cry about it when you’re a manatee again.”

“I’ll cry if I want. I’ll cry and eat my feelings too; you can’t stop me!”

“Clearly!!! You disgust me.”

“Not enough for you to stop me though! You’re weak!”

“And you’re off your thyroid meds again!”

“That’s your fault too!”


“I called yesterday and had them refilled. We’ll get back on track Monday.”

“You better! Enjoy not feeling your fingers as punishment.”

“You enjoy that fog and not being able to think of the words I want to say!”

“I hate you.”

“This English muffin is a delight.”

“It really is, you should have left off the fruit spread though.”

“You’re right. Next time.”



Moral to my story? Don’t let a hiccup in your diet throw you off track? You don’t have to feel like you’ve ruined everything, you just have to make better choices next time. Anyway… It was worth it.


I’m lecturing you, be mad.

Flashback to baby Stasia, who through a series of personal experiences, as well as cinematic ones, fell in love with the German Shepherd Dog.

I grew up living with little fluffies; none of our dogs was more than 20 lbs, and my mom liked it that way. She knew that as a mother, any dog, regardless of promises made by children, would fall under her responsibilities. She could have let us get a big dog and fail to care for it to teach us a lesson, but she would never do that to a dog, because they’re a living being that loves and depends on you, and taking one into your home is like a promise. A promise to love them, to provide them with their basic needs, to teach them how to live by foreign rules that we often make up as we go, and to keep them through the short time they grace us on this earth.

When I became an adult I finally got my German Shepherd, and I got more than I bargained for. Heidi was a mess, both physically and emotionally. The physical, in her case, was an easy fix, the emotional damage took work.

I had to teach her how to live in a house, how to trust me, how to stay with me, how to trust that other people weren’t going to hurt her either. She bonded with me fairly quickly looking back, though at the time it felt like forever.

It took over a year to teach her that people we met on our walks were friendly too. She became a social butterfly; people were just drawn to her, and she loved the affection.

Before long we ran into a new hiccup: Heidi couldn’t be left alone. She would panic, scratching at closed doors to find me, opening cabinets to eat as much food as she could so she wouldn’t starve to death in the time I was gone (be it 5 minutes or 5 hours), tearing up items that smelled like me, drooling puddles in her anxiety. I didn’t know what to do, so I bought a wire crate to keep her from destroying things.

She loved the crate while I was home and would happily nap in it with the door open. When I left? She destroyed the crate, so I bought an airline crate, sturdier, and indestructible! She barked and cried the whole time I was out of the house. I couldn’t do that to my neighbors, they’d end up calling animal control on me. Then, she bent the door in half to escape that crate. What next?

Because of who I am as a person, I decided books were the answer. I bought dog training books, but none of them said how to fix this. I went back for more and stumbled upon a book that would change our lives. It was called “The Dog Who Loved Too Much.” It was written by a Veterinary behaviorist named Nicholas Dodman, and in its pages I learned that Heidi had separation anxiety.

I worked diligently to change Heidi’s behavior, and anything I couldn’t fix 100% we managed (she probably should have gone on medication, but I was young and didn’t know better). It was a long, hard journey to help her, but when I took Heidi in, I made her a promise. She was safe with me, and I would love her always. She returned that favor in spades. It was worth the time, it was worth the tears and frustration.

Sometimes we find ourselves in situations we weren’t prepared for, life has its unexpected turns, but when you take in another life it becomes your responsibility. You don’t get to half-ass things because they’re hard, because you made the decision to bring in this life, they had no say in it. If you can look in the mirror and honestly, honestly say, “I’ve given my best and it’s just not good enough,” then I’m all for you contacting rescue and responsibly rehoming the dog. It’s the least you can do for someone who loves you unconditionally. But if you hit a bump in the road and your first instinct is to give up on someone who can’t follow rules you haven’t taught, or who has made a mistake along the way, you need to reevaluate.

If I had given up on Heidi when things got hard I wouldn’t have become a professional dog trainer, I would never have volunteered in rescue, I wouldn’t be a wife and mother, and I have no doubt we both would have died young. She saved my life, and will always be my heart. Who wouldn’t want that?


We both lie awake at this ungodly hour, staring into each other’s eyes, knowing what needed to be said, but neither one of us wanting to be the one to speak first. We knew it was the end, we had seen it coming for a while, but that doesn’t make it easier. Twelve and a half years. It seems like a long time, but it’s never enough.

I started to realize he wouldn’t say it out loud until I did, so I started searching for the right words, to make it as gentle as possible. Then it all came rushing back to me; the first time I saw her.

It was a beautiful summer morning. She was standing in a parking lot with some bad boy type, (stitches in his face, “probably was in a bar fight or something,” I thought to myself), and though I’m typically shy, I had to introduce myself; she was stunning.

Her guy was looking at me some kind of way, but I only had eyes for her, the way the sun made her glimmer, and her eyes! Oh, her eyes! I’m not usually one for brown eyes, but hers were like melted chocolate, deep, and soulful, yet full of wonder and joy, taking in everything around her.

As I approached she locked eyes with me, I gave my best smile, and she started to wiggle and snort, chasing a tail that was no longer there. She gave me some of her best kisses, and I gave her a little piece of my heart, as I did all the puppies that came through my classes. Her name was Mustang Sally.

She excelled in puppy class, and I learned that her handler got his stitches from a pair of vice grips that fell at work. She came back for my beginner class twice, and then intermediate. At graduation from the intermediate class, her handler, who still looked at me some kind of way, asked me to a movie, and I said yes.

I brought my dogs with me: Heidi, my soul mate, and Peanut, the baddest bitch to ever live, and certified joy incarnate.

Do you believe in love at first sight? I do, because I witnessed it first hand.

Peanut and Sally had an instant connection. They ran and played for four hours straight, collapsing on the kitchen floor in exhaustion, still licking and chewing at each other’s jowls. And she took more of my heart.

Through the years we started calling them Yin and Yang, two halves of a whole, light and dark. Many other dogs came in and out of our lives through fostering, sitting, and training, but they saved their best love for each other.

When one was sick, the other would stay close by. If one had a quarrel with another dog, the other had her back. They always had each other, through everything.

Sally became my demo dog for training when I had to retire Heidi. We started agility training together, and I’ll never forget her heartbreak when I became pregnant with the twins and we could no longer go. She was always so eager to work with me, to learn new things, and to snuggle.

Once I had the time to get back to training Sally was a bit old for agility, so we trained for therapy work. She passed her test with ease and was certified through TDI. She loved the visits and saying hello to everyone she could, but the shiny tile floors of the medical facilities were hard on her, so we had to retire from visits.

Dogs age so fast, sometimes we don’t even realize it’s happened. Sally was starting to get grumpy in her old age. As she grew less patient with puppies at training class, she had to retire as my demo dog. It was hard on us both.

White fur took over her little black monkey face, but her rich, chocolate eyes remained. She started growing lumps and bumps, but most seemed to be old lady warts, or lypomas (fatty tumors). We had a benign mass removed from her mouth, and in another year when something else grew, we had to leave it alone. The foul smell of her breath telling us that something more was going on. Something not fixable.

But for a while she was still happy, and would wiggle and snort, despite her now white face, and the silver creeping down her neck and up her legs.

Then Peanut passed unexpectedly. Sally didn’t want food the next couple days, and had a hard time sleeping, but Tilly and Porkchop did their best to give comfort, whether Sally wanted it or not.

A couple weeks after Peanut passed Sally collapsed in a seizure. When it was over and I was cleaning her up I begged her, “please don’t leave me too, my heart can’t take it.” And she held on.

She had her bad days, a random seizure here and there, but we also had so many more good days. Days where she would do her silly-Sally-donut-dance, chasing a tail she never knew. Trying to instigate play with Porkchop, our newest addition, only to have Tilly intervene with concern for Sally. Nights where she would snuggle up next to the kids and let them read her stories.

But tonight… Tonight she wouldn’t eat her dinner. Not even after I put bacon on it. Tonight, she made the woman who has been commended for keeping her cool in some tough situations feel like a scared child. Barry was asleep, and I was drifting when our youngest three dogs scrambled up from bed to check on Sally.

It was 2:30 AM, she was standing in the corner, and I thought she needed out.

I don’t think I’ll ever forget seeing the violence of the seizure she had on the deck. The sting of the cold burning my bare feet in the snow as I tried to keep her safe and comfortable until it was over. The sound of Porkchop barking in alarm or the sound of panic in my voice as I called for Barry’s help. The look of confusion on her face as she tried to figure out how to open her mouth for the Valium.

And now, here we were, Barry and I, lying on the floor, staring into each other’s eyes. Barry’s filled with pain, mine swollen from crying. Sally looking at us with love, and then confusion as another mild tremor passed through. Tilly and Pixie watching over us three, giving nose touches for comfort when I would become racked with sobs, but retreating when I composed myself again. Porkchop trying to get as close to her as he could to snuggle, as he had done since Peanut died, barking in a panic whenever she would start to relax. They all knew what was coming.

It was morning now, and she wasn’t getting better. She didn’t seem to be in pain; she still wagged her little nub if we spoke to her, telling her what a good girl she was, and how much we loved her, but she could no longer stand. I still hadn’t found the words I was looking for, are there words gentle enough for this?

“Well, what do you think?” So grossly inadequate. So crass. They disgust me, but that’s what I finally managed to ask him. Because, though she had become my dog in many ways, she would always be his baby.

“I didn’t want to have to make this decision.” And God, how I related to those words. The pain and the anguish in them. And he finally cried, as he buried his face in his hands, admitting that this was the end.

I texted my mom to let her know, because she loved her too, and I needed the comfort from her, but couldn’t speak aloud.

I sent a text to my sister/coworker/vet tech, to let her know we’d be in the office first thing.

I had him call his mother, so she could say goodbye to the puppy she helped him find twelve and a half years ago. The puppy that shared her birthday.

We told the kids that Sally was sick, that there was no way for her to get better, so the doctor was going to give her some special medicine so she would fall asleep, and then she would pass away, and go to be with Peanut. They hugged her, and kissed her, and cried.

Barry’s sister, who works at the vet office gave her kisses and snuggles. Then my sister, the vet tech, and our Veterinarian, who had treated Sally for twelve and a half years sobbed as they too said their farewells.

Barry wrapped his arms around her, holding my hand for strength and comfort, and with her head on my lap, I looked in those beautiful brown eyes one last time and we said, I love you.

I joined a gym…

I never thought I would, but here I am. Well, that’s not entirely true, I thought I would join a gym after I lost 20 lbs at home.

“But Stasia, that doesn’t make any sense!”

Well, I wanted to lose some weight first so that I wouldn’t be judged as harshly by the people there. I’m already self-conscious about the way I look, I don’t need to hear that I’m a jiggling sea cow from other people. I own mirrors, I know I’m fat.

Bear had gotten me a Fitbit for Mother’s Day, and I had been doing alright with that. I was making some better choices when I ate, and was definitely more active, but was only down 10 lbs from May until October. Pathetic.

A friend of mine has been going to this gym for a while and would try to talk me into coming, and I always made excuses. I saw her Facebook posts. Those people did hardcore workouts, and I needed fat-lazy girl workouts. No way I could keep up with them; I would die from embarrassment if I didn’t die from the exercise!

Then my bestie/sister-in-law joined. I noticed the results she was getting, and she kept telling me how great it was (which meant a lot coming from someone who proclaimed to hate exercising!) She finally convinced me to give it a try.

She told me no one was judgy, and that you can scale the exercises until you can do them. I half-believed her, but I was so sick of hating who I saw in the mirror, and progress was slow on my own, so I was willing to try.

The trainer gives you eating guidelines, and let me just say, this is the first time I’ve changed my eating habits and not felt deprived. There are days when I have a hard time eating enough calories because I feel full. I don’t miss the carbs like I thought I would, like I have with all the fad diets I’ve tried in the past. For whatever reason, this is different.

And I’m definitely the biggest girl in my class, but no one has ever made me feel bad about it. The trainer has built and encouraged this environment where everyone pushes each other to do their best, they all cheer each other on, and they celebrate each other’s victories.

Today was especially inspiring for me. We did a “Spartan Challenge,” which consisted of 120 burpees and a one mile run (split into 1/4 mile run, then 30 burpees, 4 times). It was hard and exhausting for even the most fit people in my class. I didn’t think I would finish it, and had I been on my own I definitely would have quit, but I wasn’t on my own. When I started my last quarter mile run two of the women that had already finished made the loop with me, even though they were tired, they cared enough to make sure I didn’t give up, even though that was an extra quarter mile for them. When I felt like I could barely lift my feet they encouraged me to keep moving.

And I didn’t give up! I made that loop and then finished my burpees, and I managed to stop shaking enough to write my time on the wall. It wasn’t the best time by a long shot, but it’s my best time, and next time will be better.

I’ve lost over 10 lbs since I started, but I care about that so much less than I thought I would. Now I care more about the way I feel, the muscles I’m building, the strength and the energy I have. I always thought people that loved to exercise were a little off (sorry!) but I get it now.

I look forward to going every day, and I miss it on the off days. I swear my muscles twitch with excitement when I think about exercising on days where in the past I’d have been sedentary. I still struggle with the depression, but this gets me out of bed and moving for the day, which is a huge step for me.

I’m getting stronger every day, I’m setting new goals for myself, and I can’t wait to bore you all with the before and afters!


In 2003 my ex and I were stationed in NY. I started feeding the cats that were left behind when other military families moved to their next duty station. I was TNR-ing them as I got the money (I didn’t even know it was a thing when I started, I was still a baby without any rescue experience.)

Some cats were more friendly than others, and I had my favorites. There was an orange tabby I named Sherbert who was the most friendly. (Yes, I spelled his name wrong, fight me!) He was the first to let me pet him, and eventually would even tolerate me picking him up to snuggle.

One day while bringing in groceries Sherbert snuck in the propped open kitchen door to eat our cat’s food. My ex wanted to put him back out immediately, but I said to just leave him, he’d go back out once he finished. Sure enough, by the time we were done unloading groceries Sherbert was nowhere to be seen.

We had dinner and watched TV for a few hours, then I decided I was going to put on my pajamas. When I came to the top of the stairs and looked in my bedroom, there in the middle of the bed was a stripey, orange ball of fur.

“What are you doing up here?! X is going to be so mad!” I whispered as I walked closer. Sherby just stretched his little paws out and purred so loudly!

I giggled quietly and stroked his back which made him stretch out again. This time I noticed something off about his paws.

I called X to come upstairs to see something. He came up and said, “What’s he doing in here? He can’t stay, we can’t have another cat.”

I replied, “Look at this,” as I gently squeezed Sherbert’s paw, “he’s declawed.*”

“Why do people do that? Ugh. Well, we can’t put him back outside, he doesn’t have any way to defend himself.” Despite his roughness, X had a soft spot for animals, and especially cats.

I took Sherby to the vet where he received vaccines and a microchip, he was officially ours. He refused to be an indoor only car after being out so long, but always came inside in the evenings, and was never far from the yard during the day.

In 2005 my marriage to X had ended and we split up the animals. I couldn’t afford them all, I couldn’t even afford the slum I would be living in with Heidi, my German Shepherd and soulmate, so the cats went to live with X.

Sherbert wasn’t happy with the arrangement and began urinating on the countertops and in the kitchen sink. I suggested a vet visit to check for urinary issues, but then Sherby peed on X’s knapsack right in front of him… While making direct eye contact. X was livid and told me I needed to take him (among some other not so nice words).

I was working at a boarding kennel at the time, and asked the owner if I could bring Sherby there. She was nervous at first, she didn’t want the kennel smelling like cat urine, but I assured her he would be a good boy, and I’d already scheduled a check up for him to make sure it wasn’t a health issue.

Sherbert was issued a clean bill of health, and was such a happy, easy going cat that he moved up to the office and was loved by everyone. I had hoped that eventually I’d be able to find an apartment that would allow me to have him home with me again, but that was at least several years away.

An animal rescue boarded their dogs and cats at this kennel, and the volunteers came in every weekend to show the animals for adoption. One of their long time volunteers, Joan, also brought her own dogs during the week for daycare, so we got to know each other pretty well, and she got to know Sherby really well since they hung out at the desk together every weekend.

She loved orange tabby cats, but hadn’t had a cat since her Tigger had passed, it was just too painful. But she always admired Sherb and made sure to say hello to him whenever she came in.

Sherby had been living there for at least 3-4 months when one morning Joan stopped to talk to me as she dropped off her dogs for daycare. I remember that conversation so well.

“Stasia, would you ever consider adopting out Sherbet?”

“Oh, Joan, it would have to be a really good home. They would have to be the perfect adopter for me to be able to let him go. Did you have someone asking about him this weekend?”

“Well, I was thinking maybe I could adopt him…”

“Oh Joan, I would love for you to have him! Of course!” I threw my arms around her in a big hug, and I remember her laughing and being near tears.

My heart was breaking knowing that Sherbert wouldn’t be mine, but I also knew that he would be so much happier in a home, where he could curl up in someone’s bed like he’d always done on mine. I was so happy knowing that he was going to live with Joan, because I knew she would give him the life I wanted to and love him like I did.

This morning Joan sent me a message that Sherby had passed in his sleep. He was at least 15 years old, but may have been older. It was a good long life for a cat that had been put out like the trash.

I’ve been crying since she told me. But I will forever be grateful to Joan for giving Sherbert the happily ever after he deserved.

*Declawing is not just removing the claws, it’s removing the end of the toe. Although I’m strongly opposed to this practice, I’d rather see a cat declawed and in a loving home than homeless. Please don’t tell me your opinion on this, this blog entry is for Sherby.

My Girl

Back in the year 2000 this girl and I, if asked about the other, would have said, “She seems like a bitch.” (We weren’t wrong)

We had been on the dance team with each other, played softball, done chorus and musicals together, and had been going to the same school since 6th grade, even having quite a few friends in common… We just never connected. 

Then in 2001, at Jay’s graduation party, we were sitting at a picnic table with mutual friends and we clicked. I don’t know why, or how, or what changed, but it did and it was such a strong connection almost immediately. It was like two puzzle pieces that you know must go together, but you couldn’t get them to until you stepped back and looked at it from a different angle, then with just a little turn they fit perfectly, and you wonder why it took you so long to figure it out. 

That summer after graduation we bonded like crazy. I was upset and afraid she’d be hurt that it was too late to include her in my wedding that September (yes, I was young and stupid), but she said she was glad she didn’t have to wear pink.

She came to see me off at the Pittsburgh airport when I moved to Florida, and called me at least once a week to check on me and update me on life back home. 

When my (now ex) husband went over seas and I moved back home we became even closer. I was at her family’s second home nearly every weekend, unless she couldn’t make it up, then I drove down to stay in Pittsburgh. When she moved up to that home more permanently, I practically lived there too. 

We went shopping together, haunted houses, doctor appointments, she even got me drunk for the first time (and helped take care of me for my 3 day hangover). We were just about inseparable. When we weren’t together physically we’d watch TV shows, especially dog shows on holidays, while on the phone so we could laugh at each other’s commentary.

When my ex’s tour was over and I was moving to NY we were heartbroken at having to be separated, but she still called me to check in like before. I listened to her problems, and she helped me through so much, including the messy heartbreak that was the end of my marriage. She wanted me to come home after that, but still supported my stubborn ass when I told her I had to prove that I could do it on my own, even if that meant living in the ghetto. 

When Barry came around she was happy for me, even though she was worried he’d break my heart. And now she loves him, and our children, too. 

She knows me to the core, gets my twisted sense of humor, and loves me for saying what other people feel guilty for thinking.

She’s been such a constant in my life, like the sister I never had, even when I’m shitty at keeping in touch, I know she’s there. So, I hope she knows that I will be there for her no matter what, and that I appreciate everything she’s done for me, and that she gives some of the best hugs, and I love her so very, very much, and I hope her birthday today brings her every happiness.

She’s my person, and my favorite bitch. 

Taking it back Tuesday?

That’s a thing, right? No? Well, it is now. I just watched a really cute video of two little boys who had emptied the contents of a bean bag chair so that their dinosaurs could frolic. In the video their mum asks how she’ll clean it and I thought, “at least it’s not Desitin…” 

The “whoops” at the end kills me every time. Watch the video here!

This leads me to share a blog post I made nearly 5 years ago. I’m no longer active on that blog, but here’s the text for your enjoyment:

In the past week the east coast has survived a 5.8 earthquake and hurricane Irene. I have survived the twinadoes and the Desitin massacre of 2011.

We were having a quiet day lazing around the house Sunday while the wind and the rains howled outside. It was around 1:30, 2:00 when the babes started to fall, fuss, fight, and become all around cranky. I suggested we put them down for a nap. They screamed and cried for a couple minutes, then became quiet. We falsely assumed they had gone to sleep.

Recently the two have become proficient at opening drawers and such, but the worst they’ve done is to empty out a clothes drawer or remove all the baby wipes from the container. Today was different. 

Barry and I were relaxing in the living room, I reading, he watching tv, when we heard Devi’s bloodcurdling scream. 

Barry made it to the room before me, I had tripped on the dogs. Before I reached the hallway I heard Barry yell, “What the hell did you do?!?!” I figured they had rearranged their furniture again, or maybe emptied out their diaper pail (again); my wildest imaginings couldn’t have prepared me for what I saw.

“Hi Mommy!” Kayleigh exclaimed when she saw me. Barry had already pushed his way into the room to get to Devi. If Barry hadn’t been so upset, worked up, and worried about it, I would have been in hysterics laughing. And I certainly would have gotten pictures, for not having taken any, I apologize.

I had just bought the tub, not tube, tub, of Desitin two days before. It was completely empty, cleaned out better than the container I had just thrown away. It was smeared on the changing table, the door, up and down the floor lamp, Devin’s crib-on every slat, and all over his sheets and blankets. For some reason they had not touched Kayleigh’s bed; thank God for small blessings. 

Kayleigh looked like one of the warriors from “Braveheart,” only in white paint instead of blue. It streaked up her nose following the lines of her eyebrows, and covering her forehead. She had a few “highlights” in her hair, of course her hands were covered too, but that was not all. She had also lifted up her pant legs and thoroughly rubbed her feet and legs. She paid special attention to her belly. Her clothes were covered as well, but nothing could compare to Devin. 

He looked like “Powder.” He was balling, probably because some of the Desitin had gotten in his eyes. His entire head, save the very top, was covered. It was up his nose, in his ears, and down his neck. His hands and feet were covered, but he had the decency not to lift his shirt. The sweatsuit he was wearing was well coated in a layer of the creamy spackle from hell.

I didn’t even know where to start with clean up. Barry had taken off his own shirt to wipe away Devin’s eyes, but Devi kept trying to rub them with his hands (which were still covered) and was reapplying the cream. Barry was now sporting a nice coating of white. I didn’t want to be in the same predicament, it’s such a pain to clean off.

I stripped Kayleigh’s shirt and pants off, lifted her at arm’s length and placed her into the tub. I hooked up the spray hose that I use to bathe the dogs and attempted to hose her off, to no avail. The Desitin, made to repel moisture, was doing its job.

I grabbed a washcloth and began to wipe away the cream, starting from her head down. I had to rinse the cloth frequently as it was getting clogged with the greasy ointment. Johnson and Johnson hadn’t prepared their shampoo to handle such a mess, so I had to use my shampoo to get her hair clean.

We went through two more washcloths with Devi. With as well as he had rubbed it into his hair, not even my shampoo could wash it out, even after 3 tries. Barry ended up using his bar of Irish Springs to clean poor Devi’s head.

We wiped and rinsed, and scrubbed and fought as his patience (and Barry’s) wore thin. Finally, we had him mostly clean, save what we had to get with a Q-tip from his ears and nose.

The was no need to put lotion on them post bath, as their skin was well lubricated. They both still had creases of white around their cuticles, hands, and feet, but overall were fairly clean.

I sent them out to the living room with their frustrated father while I set to work cleaning their room. It took probably an hour to clean the furniture, walls, etc. The clothes on the other hand….. If you ever have such a nightmare, I hope you can just pitch the clothing. These were brand new outfits, so I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Instead I’ve washed them 5 or 6 times, the last few times in hot water with Dawn dish detergent, which seems to have done the trick.

Devin still has a bit of Desitin in his eyelashes. You can’t really see it unless you’re looking closely, but it’s there.

We now keep the jar of Desitin up on the shelf, and I would ask for prayers that they catch on to the potty training soon.

Good times! My biggest regret in life is that I didn’t take pictures that day. I had to use baby wipes to clean it off the walls and furniture, my normal cleaning cloths were just getting clogged and smearing it around. I had to use a bucket of hot soapy water and a bristled brush to get the Desitin out of the woodgrain on the door. I remember scrubbing my hands raw afterward and still having Desitin around my cuticles and under my nails. It was all I could smell when I ate.

Although I reported that I thought I’d saved the clothing and sheets, it only fully came out of Devin’s sweats and the sheets, I think because they were cotton? Kayleigh’s pink, Baby Phat velour refused to release the Desitin and had to be thrown out. I was so upset.

This was posted in August of 2011 just after their second birthday, and they were fully potty trained by the beginning of the following January. I was motivated! 

Here they are the following Halloween; you can assume their expressions were similar when we saw the mess they’d made! (Couldn’t you just eat them up? I miss them being that age!!!)

The smell of Desitin still makes me ill, leading me to assume I have a mild form of PTSD, and Barry can now almost laugh about it. So don’t worry parents everywhere! All of our kids make a terrible mess (or many messess) at some point. Even though you may want to scream/cry/die/sell your children on the black market at that moment, that moment will pass. It doesn’t make you an awful parent, and one day (hopefully sooner than later!) you’ll be able to look back on it and laugh. (So take a moment and take the pictures!)