Published Articles


We love sharing out stories and opinions with you. Occasionally, editors give us the opportunity to reach an even wider audience. Take a peek at our published pieces below and keep checking back as our outreach grows!

The Day It Dawned On Me That I’m Not So Young Anymore – Scary Mommy, 8 September 2016

Hey Kid, Get Outta My Bed! – Scary Mommy, 13 September 2016

The Truth About Sleepless Nights – Scary Mommy, 14 September 2016

A Vote Against Trump Is A Vote For My Daughter – The Huffington Post, 28 September 2016

I Had No Idea How Hard Being A Military Spouse Would Be – SheKnows, 9 October 2016 (originally published as “I Did Not Know”)

10 Things Your FRG Leader Wishes You Knew – Military Spouse, 1 November 2016

Stop Assuming It’s My Fault I That I Have A Fussy Baby – SheKnows, 12 November 2016 (originally published as “Insane Advice You Get When You Have A Fussy Baby)

I Don’t Care If Zumba Isn’t Cool Anymore – I Still Love It – SheKnows, 29 November 2016 (originally published as “5 Reasons Why Every Mom Needs to Hop on the Zumba Train”)

Why the “Heartbeat Bill” is Truly Heartless – The Huffington Post, 9 December 2016

Yes, There Are Advantages To My Husband Being Deployed – SheKnows, 24 December 2016 (originally published as “Don’t Just Survive Deployments, Embrace Them”)

It’s Inauguration Day And, Yes, I Am Watching – The Huffington Post, 20 January 2017

To My MilSpouse Friends: Politics Aside, I’m Still Me –  featured on NextGenMilSpouse, 11 March 2017

Compromise: I’ll Stop Talking Politics When You Quit Recruiting Me Into Your Leggings Cult – Scary Mommy, 14 April 2017

  • C & K

Hey Kid, Get Outta My Bed!


My dear, sweet, lovely child,

Let me be blunt: You are driving me out of my ever-loving mind.

Listen, I know you’re just 4 and have very real fears of the dark, monsters, and being alone. I get it. Hell, just a few weeks ago, your dad and I were certain that an off-kilter washing machine drum was actually a blood-thirsty burglar. And when he left our room to confront that would-be intruder, I didn’t place high odds on his returning safely. I wished in that moment I still had a blankie to snuggle up with like you do. The dark sucks. Unfamiliar noises suck.

But you know what? Things that go bump in the night will scare you until the day you die. None of us are as brave as we pretend to be.

That being said, we have got to find a new arrangement.

I’ll be honest, your grandparents were superheroes. They survived four kids — that’s four complete childhoods full of bad dreams, scary storms, and midnight snuggles — with a kind of grace that I can’t quite seem to muster. I try. I do! But, I just wasn’t prepared for this level of torture. Nobody told me!

I’m not sure where you acquired that starfish technique of yours but I have to say, it’s not very conducive to fitting two grown adults and one tiny person in a queen-size bed. But I could live with that tiny sliver of mattress if it meant a peaceful, if precarious, night’s sleep.

Alas, that is not the world in which we live. No, apparently starfish people must flail about as if an imaginary ocean current forces their body to remain in a state of perpetual movement. They seem to have evolved motion sensors that lock onto anything in its path. And by anything, I mean anything called Mom. Dads have somehow acquired immunity. Explain that one.

Sometimes it’s the starfish that shows up. Sometimes it’s just a shadowy figure standing quietly over me until I awake in horror. Even then, I am guilted into letting you crawl into my bed because my inevitable shriek of terror causes you to cry and tell me I scared you. Whatever form your shapeshifting takes, it’s utterly exhausting.

Child, I love you. You are my world. But, for the love of God, if I have to peel your sticky, sweaty feet off of my face more than once a night, you will find yourself with a gremlin instead of a mother at daybreak — and not the cute one either. Nobody wants that.

Look, I know I’m not blameless in this. Websites and self-help books all say that I’ve allowed this nightly behavior to flourish with my apparently less-than-stellar willpower. So…guilty as charged, I guess?

Just know this: I love you. I love you so much that the thought of refusing you comfort in the face of genuine fear is unthinkable, even when my own comfort is drastically reduced. The truth is, while part of me can’t wait to sleep comfortably again, I also know that these days are numbered.

Yes, I want the starfish out of my bed. Maybe we compromise with a sleeping bag on the floor? Just spitballing here. But you, my little girl…you never have to worry about being alone. You never have to worry about the dark. You can always find comfort in your parents…

…until you’re grown up and the washing machine drum gets off balance. Then you’re shit out of luck.


Gremlin Mommy


  • C

(Originally published on Scary Mommy – 13 September 2016)

**C also writes for POMP USA, a start up company promoting businesses owned by service members, veterans, and their spouses.

Please visit for more information**

The Day It Dawned On Me That I’m Not So Young Anymore


My early 20s don’t seem like they were that long ago. While the days of body shots, cartilage piercings, and other regrettable life choices bear no resemblance to my current life, I still remember them with a kind of clarity that (copious amounts of alcohol notwithstanding) seems to undermine the decade that has since passed.

Perhaps it’s because my “under-tall” stature tends to convince people I am barely within legal drinking age, or maybe it’s because my children have generously allowed me the kind of beauty sleep necessary to keep my skin soft and supple — just kidding, that’s not true at all. Either way, I’ve always considered my husband and I fairly cool. Like, maybe we have more responsibilities and life experience under our belts, but we definitely aren’t old fuddy-duddies, right?


Last week, we took advantage of some rare free time to head out for a fun-filled day sans whiney children. It was blissful, entailing a six-hour round trip drive to reach our destination. We turned off the Princess Tea Party CD that had played on loop for the last three months and listened, gratefully, to whatever the hell we wanted. We snacked on junk food without having to share. I took a nap. Turns out, road trips without children are surprisingly relaxing.

On the way back, we stopped for dinner at a burger joint. My husband ordered some food while I secured a quiet booth and checked my phone to see if there were any messages from the sitter. (And by “sitter,” I mean our good friends who we conned into thinking it would be fun to watch our kids for a day. Suckers.)

Just as we began chowing down, relishing in the knowledge that we would be able to finish our entire meal without any meltdowns, potty accidents, or other inevitable shenanigans, a group of young guys sat down in the booth next to us. They were tan, muscular, and judging from their barely there tank tops, wanted to make sure everyone knew it. They could have easily passed for some serious surfers grabbing a bite after a long day on the waves, except despite the fact that we live in California, we are nowhere near coastline or any sort of water.

As they lounged in their seats, incessantly running their fingers through their thick sun-kissed hair, my husband nodded over at them and whispered, “Do you think they are college-age or what?” Trying to look inconspicuous, I feigned interest in the menu posted above their heads for a better look at the surfer boys. “Definitely,” I agreed. “College kids, for sure.”

At about that time, a gaggle of girls bopped in who happened to know the boys. They giggled and high-fived and jumped around in their impossibly small Daisy Dukes. Tan and tiny, their barely there tank tops ensured everyone knew it. (I must’ve missed the loose, faintly see-through tank top memo.)

Then somebody made a joke, and they all laughed obnoxiously loud. Like, there’s-no-way-it-was-that-funny-but-they-had-to-be-the-center-of-attention-anyway kind of loud. My husband and I looked at one another and rolled our eyes.

“Well, that’s annoying,” he grumbled. With my fingers pressed deeply between my eyes, I responded with, “My sinuses are killing me, and it’s way too loud in here. We need to get home anyway. It’s getting late.”

It was still light outside.

And that’s when the obvious slapped me right across the face. My life looks nothing like that anymore. I don’t look like that anymore. I don’t talk like that. Did I ever resemble this seemingly farcical representation of young adulthood? Moments before, my husband and I had felt victorious over our early-bird dinner while these young guns were probably eating their first meal of the day and wouldn’t go to sleep again until we were waking up. What had previously felt like my not-so-distant past suddenly propelled itself light-years away from my current reality.

I looked down uneasily at myself: conservative cardigan and sensible shoes. (We had walked around quite a bit that day, after all!) I glanced over at my husband: smart polo and khaki shorts (not of the cargo variety). We looked old, comparatively at least.

I mean, we had good reason to be dressed the way we were. We had just come from a Vatican exhibit at the Ronald Reagan Presidential Library so, duh, we had to at least look like the feeble, tired parents we are.

Oh, I hadn’t mentioned that yet? Yes. We spent our one day alone oohing and aahing over papal artifacts at a presidential library. And we liked it! But that’s not even the best part. Ready for this? We found and reported a grammatical typo in the museum and felt awesome about it.

So, there — whatever. I guess it shouldn’t really have taken some spry young chickens to make me acknowledge my inevitable decline into muumuu dresses and Tom Collins cocktails. But, for now, I’ll happily enjoy my yoga pants and nightly glass of pinot grigio like the rockin’ 30-going-on-80-year-old that I am. Life has brought me to this exact point, and it’s not going to slow down anytime soon. I am just going to get older, grayer, and crankier. But I’m totally fine with that, and you should be too, because I’m comfortable in my cardigans and wouldn’t be caught dead in a see-through tank top.

Besides, at least I know how to hashtag so I’m not totally hopeless, right?


  • C

(Originally published on Scary Mommy – 8 September 2016)

**C also writes for POMP USA, a start up company promoting businesses owned by service members, veterans, and their spouses.

Please visit for more information**