Failure isn’t fun. I don’t think anyone sits around and says, “I’d like to really suck at something today.” Yeah, that doesn’t happen. It is in our nature to want to succeed at every task we attempt. Unfortunately, that’s not the way the world works. There will be times where you attempt something that doesn’t pan out. A failed business, or relationship, or maybe even a hobby that just wasn’t your thing. As adults, we have a better understanding of failure. Kids? Not so much.

My oldest son is very smart. Borderline ridiculous smart. And he’s the one I worry about the most. Because being smart might make things easier for you in certain situations, like, understanding quantum physics, but you still have to apply yourself in the trying of the things.

Smart to my kid is beginning to look like he has everything in the bag just because he’s smart. And as adults, we know that isn’t quite the case. Practice, dedication and hard work are still paramount no matter how smart you are. And with his high IQ comes an overwhelming sense of fear when it comes to failure. It seems he would prefer not to try if the odds are he might fail. This is bad, and I’ve been worrying about this more and more.

Yesterday, my nephew was celebrating his birthday at a local roller rink. Although he’s been roller skating before, coordination tasks aren’t really my oldest’s favorite activities and he stated on the way there that he wasn’t planning on skating. When we got to the party I talked him into getting on some skates, “What’s the worst thing that could happen?” I posed. “I could spend the entire party on my butt,” he countered. “True, but you’ll spend it on your butt with skates on your feet as opposed to wearing your shoes in that chair over there.”

Mom: 1, 10-year-old: 0.

And that’s when the most miraculous thing happened.

He skated.

And he sucked, and he fell, and then he sucked less, and then he fell less.

And before he even realized it, he was having fun. With every completed revolution around the rink he’d call out to me, “Mom, I only fell once that time,” or “I haven’t fallen in the last 15 laps.”

The smile on his handsome tween face lit that skating rink brighter than the florescent lights bouncing off the disco ball. Watching him try with the fear of failure looming in the background was a moment I will always treasure, and remind him of over and over again when he attempts to back out of shit.

‘Cause I’m a mom like that.


My Cheeseburger Bombs bring the boys to the yard, and they’re like, HOLY SHIT IS THAT DEEP FRIED BACON?

We have survived the first week of summer. Barely. Actually, less than barley… minimally. Look, I love my kids, and camp doesn’t start for another week, so I’ve been grasping at straws trying to keep the peace and have a good time. Sadly, I am failing.

But that’s okay.

We are still alive, we haven’t needed any medical intervention (fingers crossed) and today is a new day. Today, I decided to chuck the everyday peanut butter and jelly lunch in an effort to wow my kids. “See, look kids, mommy does care, she really does! She fried shit with bacon on it for you! LOOK, bacon.” Okay, the conversation didn’t go quite like that, but they were impressed, and thankful, and quiet for a whole 7 minutes because they were chewing.

It. Was. Glorious.

I know what you’re thinking, “Amy, please… I too, want to be an MVP mom today. I too, want to knock my kids socks off and have 7 minutes of chewing silence.” Well bitch, you’re welcome. Here is the holy grail for no-school-day lunches and tailgate parties… Bacon Cheeseburger Bombs.


bombs ing

This is what you need.

Bacon Cheeseburger Bombs
Adapted from Pillsbury

1 can (16.3 oz) Pillsbury™ Grands!™ Flaky Layers refrigerated original or buttermilk biscuits
1 lb lean (at least 80%) ground beef, cooked or 16 frozen (thawed) cooked meatballs (I use ground beef)
1 block (8 oz) Cheddar cheese, cut into 16 cubes
16 slices bacon (One pack)
Long toothpicks or skewers
Canola oil for frying

bomb g

Let them help, but make sure they wash their hands first. Kids = Gross.

First things first, pop open your can of biscuits, separate them into 8 individual biscuits and cut those suckers in half. I used a serrated knife and just went to town. At this point the kids are going to want to help. LET THEM. Shit, you guys don’t have anything else to do today, might as well milk this for as long as you possibly can. Once the biscuits are cut you can have your sous chef use his hands to press them into a circle about 3 inches in diameter. You can fix them all when he gets bored and walks away. Trust me.

bomb m

“You stink. You smell like beef and cheese! You don’t smell like Santa.”

Now this is getting really fun. Next, place 2 tablespoons cooked ground beef (or 1 meatball) and 1 cube of cheese in the center of each circle. Wrap the dough to completely enclose beef and cheese; pinch seams to seal. Don’t worry if your dough rips or anything. Messes are delicious too.

bomb b

Bacon makes my heart go pitter patter.

Now that you have 16 little “bombs” of awesome you should put your canola oil in a 3 quart heavy saucepan or deep fryer. Heat oil to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. MAKE SURE your oil is not too hot. You don’t want to have the outside of your “bombs” burnt to a crisp while the inside dough is raw. That would be bad – not that I’ve ever experienced this or anything (okay, I’ve totally experienced this). While your oil is getting hot you are going to wrap each stuffed “bomb” with one bacon slice – I told you this was health food – and gently secure the loose bacon with a toothpick by inserting it through the bacon and halfway through the “bomb”.

bomb cart

Ouch, that hurt.

By now your oil should be 350. Make sure to check that shit, and fry stuffed “bombs” 4 to 5 minutes or until dough is golden brown on all sides. While you’re frying, this is usually the time the kids are getting hungry and start throwing random shit at you, like, a metal shopping cart. Just ignore them and fry away. Place fried “bombs’ on paper towels to cool. Repeat with remaining “bombs”. Serve warm with ketchup and mustard, if desired. I guess you can also bake the “bombs” but I’m all about go big or go home over here.

Pinterest Cheeseburger



Part of being a parent is the hypocrisy that goes hand-in-hand with child rearing. I’ve heard from lots of parents the basics: they smoke, but they don’t want their children to smoke, they drink (and drank underage as a teen) but they don’t want their kids to drink. Let’s not even get started on the whole topic of pre-marital sex. None of my children are in the double-digits yet, so I’m just going to bleach my mind of that thought for the next 6 years.

When you’re a parent of young kids, you find yourself saying, “Don’t pick your nose” but then you go in the bathroom and pick your own nose… fine, you don’t pick your nose (yeah, right). Or the whole, “stop touching your privates” but we all know what adults do with their privates, when they are in private. (don’t lie) It’s hypocritical, it’s a daily occurrence, it’s parenting.

I’ve gotten used to the hypocrisy I know I possess as a parent. It’s become a necessary evil. I am a normal, albeit flawed human, and “do as I say, not as I do” is always in the back of my mind. We are trying to raise children into competent adults, and with that, comes this amazing grey area of what is acceptable behavior in public. While I, as your mommy, will attempt to deal with your ridiculous, violent temper tantrum at age 3, your boss, when you are 23, might not want to have that around the other employees. If they figure this shit out then I’ve done my job right. {Fingers crossed}

When you get pregnant anytime after your first child, it’s like your brain resets itself, or maybe you take all the awful shit and repress that into a dark corner of your mind as a defense mechanism, or maybe it’s just preggo brain and you can’t remember if you put underwear on that morning or not… either way, I have 3 kids and I seemed to forget the biggest hypocrisy of my childbearing history, until this morning.

This morning my middle child, my 3-year-old, had his first soccer game. A real soccer game, with a real coach, and real uniforms, and real teammates. Mind you, my oldest, has been playing competitive soccer since he was 3. I’ve spent the last 7 years on soccer fields with children, so today was an exciting rite-of-passage for Middle Monkey. To him, it meant he was, really “a big boy”, to me, it meant, oh shit, another place to remember to bring another kid, but I was, of course, excited for him. While watching and assisting in the shit-show that is 3-year-old soccer, one of those hypocrite memories from the days of yore flooded my brain.

The biggest hypocrite parenting moment starts when our children play competitive sports. From the moment they interact with others we tell them: Share, don’t hit, don’t take things, don’t take things that aren’t yours, don’t scare other people, be nice, be kind, be respectful, be compassionate… and then they start playing “real” sports and the most demure, the most reserved, the quietest parent on the planet, becomes the biggest psycho in the universe when she screams, “GET THE F*CKING BALL!” Okay, maybe she didn’t say that out-loud. but she wanted too, she was close.

If it takes place on the field, every modicum of truth has gone out the window. We now tell our kids the complete opposite of all the things we’ve been saying for 3 years about being a good kid, a good person, and a good friend.

“Get the ball!”

“Go get it back!”

“Steal it from her/him!”

“Don’t let her/him take that from you.”

“Get up! GET UP! What are you doing?”

“Check her/him back. That’s your ball!”

“Run!!! Don’t stop!”

Even at 9AM on a Saturday, even without alcoholic drinks in our hands, and cheerleaders on the sideline, parents lose all self-control and forget about the normal everyday messages we’ve been teaching our kids since birth. We expect these little people to flip a switch between gamer and good person on a dime, and then are surprised when it takes time for them to come back to what is expected.

Thankfully I wasn’t that mom today (although I’ve been that mom before). Monkey is a gamer all the time. His post-game-tantrum was because the game was over and he wanted to keep playing. Other kids, not so much. I’ll be surprised if they show up next weekend.

At least one thing is the same on and off the field… Don’t bite.