Actually this blog is far from “regularly scheduled.” I write when the mood moves me. But this month has been certifiably insane. And I find myself. Depressed.

I’ll feel better tomorrow or the day after. It’s just hard. Between work and constantly-screaming children, I can’t relax. My body and mind are screaming over the children, “YOU NEED A BREAK! YOU NEED TO SLEEP! YOU NEED TO…PLAY AND I DON’T MEAN LEGO! You need a facial, massage, a vacation.” Somewhere warm like a deserted island. I can lie on a hammock and let the ocean rock me back and forth and back and forth and back and….

Right now the closest thing I have to a vacation is this….

She doesn’t demand much, our Betty White. Only to be let outside approximately every 6½ minutes, or any time I shift positions when I’m working on the couch. She owns it. Our backyard is her territory. She has balls and bones and probably old cat poop buried deep beneath the ground. Every 12½ minutes I let her in and wipe the black of digging off her face. Her beard.

I’d love to feel as joyful as Betty White. I watch her out my window. She scurries here and there and then just stops. Still. Listens. Espies. Stomps. Sees me. Comes running. Expects. Cookie.

She’s not the only one who loves the outdoors around here — especially when it’s snowing and below zero….

Snow angels! He can’t get enough of the snow. Which is totally how it should be when you’re 3 years old. Even as I watch his red little nose turn to purple and scrunch with the glee, I can’t even imagine.

Don’t worry, Gorgeouses. I’ll snap out of this. I get depressed. I don’t hide it well. This doesn’t mean I need to talk about it or go get help. Sometimes, in my case, depression’s okay. I’m like a big bear in the winter. I just want to cozy up on my favourite spot on the couch and be warm and still and…not tweet much.

It just so happens that all the beings I’m wholly responsible for 24/7 are the farthest thing from big bears in the winter. They’re more like those flippy little birds that stick around instead of flying south — the ones Betty White chases every 6½ minutes in the backyard. WHY NOT FLY TO FLORIDA? So I’m tired. And craving. A vacation. An island. A hammock. A good night’s sleep.

Good night, Gorgeouses.

Love!

xo Haley-O

Last night between fits of insomnia I dreamed of glitter and really long hair. I woke up to find the Rascal snoring and drooling on my back — wearing his new Maple Leafs jersey, clutching his new Maple Leafs hat in one dimply hand and his new Spiderman scooter in the other.

“Mama, your hair smells like gummy bears.” He’s right, unfortunately. This new shampoo is awful.

Stomp stomp stomp. The Monkey runs in to my bedroom carrying her new miniature Rapunzel doll, “Look, Mama! Her hair looks like a long stick on her head! [Giggle].” Good morning!

Hanukkah is here all right. While the first night’s gifts weren’t a total success (the Rascal’s Cars phone was too educational…). The second night’s gifts were so awesome the kids forgot about Christmas and Santa, Rudolf, elves, indoor trees adorned with pretty sparkly things….

But it wasn’t the hockey sweater and mini Rapunzel doll the kids loved…. It was the fabulous night out. I took the Monkey on a girls’ night out to see Tangled, and Josh-O took the Rascal to the Leafs game – via subway. Gorgeouses, ’twas the night my clinging-to-babyhood Rascal became a big boy….

New shirt — new attitude! (Not including the epic tantrum he threw this morning when he wanted to wear his favourite yellow sports jersey underneath his new Leafs jersey: “No, you can’t wear those two together, Rascal.” “Wahhh, I want Mama, Wahhhh!”) And yes we let him wear that Leafs jersey to bed AND to school. Hey, it’s preschool. No one cares.

Except the Monkey. Apparently she cares. A lot.

“Mama, I was on stage in front of thousands of people today,” she screamed when I picked her up from school today.

My child — my 5-year-old child — stood up on the gymnasium stage in front of the entire school to accept the School Character Award for “Consistent Demonstration of Empathy” today. Now who’s verklempt? Empathy. Empathy!

On our special night out, the Monkey and I had some much-needed time alone. She sat on my lap throughout the movie, got scared and wanted to leave as usual. But I urged her — just like in swim class — to push through her fear, and she did and she was illuminated like a thousand lanterns….

*Weep.* It’s…just so pretty.

I think I liked Tangled even more than most people because I thought Rapunzel was Reese Witherspoon the whole time. So throughout the movie, I was, like, “Wow, Reese Witherspoon can really sing.” Rapunzel was played by Mandy More, though. Who’s also quite agorjable and talented, but she’s not Reese Witherspoon.

Tonight we had our big Hanukkah party with all the cousins at It’sGrandma’s house. Latkes, dreydls, gelt, more presents (egad), the works. And I’m…. I’m beat, and I’m full. And I’m practically broke.

Oh, before you go, check this out! I’m honoured to be a Top 5 Finalist in two categories of the Canadian Weblog Awards — Life and Best Written.

I have to say, I’m really surprised. Thank you to whomever nominated me and to the jurors and the brillers Ms. Schmutzie (the Awards’ creator and organizer), and especially to all of you for being so Gorgeous.

Happy Hanukkah to those who are celebrating!

Love!
xo Haley-O

P.S.: Put on your dancing shoes and check out this now-viral Hanukkah video I posted at Today’s Parent yesterday if you haven’t already — it was featured on CNN today.

I have absolutely no idea what I’m going to write here, as I sit down to this empty screen, eyes half closed, the monkey still up watching “Star Party” — aka the Dancing with the Stars finale.

Team Grey!

I just popped an oat-bran bagel in the toaster oven — probably my last for a long time as I embark on, yes, another diet. Well, not really a diet, more like a way of life. It worked this morning when I enjoyed my oatmeal-and-almond-milk-with-syrup-raisins-walnuts-and-cinnamon breakfast and the resulting stable moods and unexhausted energy level for hours.

“You’re very quiet today,” my co-worker remarked as she passed by my desk this morning. It’s because I didn’t have that blasted morning Starbucks soy-no-water-tazo-chai latté that makes me bounce off the walls every morning. “You really know how to have a drink,” the barista told me the other day as my dreaded order rolled off my tongue dreamily, effortlessly. “I know,” I said, drooling and shaking. “I know.” Gimmemychai….

But this afternoon was a big fat FAIL when the Rascal BEGGED to go to a bookstore — with a Starbucks in it. Danger! DANGER! BEEEP! BEEEP! Moods plummeted. Patience erupted. I believe I may have even roared at one point when I noticed the dishes in the dishwasher were clean. Don’t worry, the kids were out of earshot….

Betty White (the dog) is looking at me with a “what’s wrong with you?” look on her face. I think it’s because I’m not only watching Skating with the Stars, but I’m PVR’ing it, too. And one of the judges actually just said, “you have a spiffy personality.” That same judge’s name is Dick Button. And, woah, it’s time to announce each judge’s score, and the host(ess) calls his name out unnaturally seriously: “Dick. Button.” Josh just asked me if this show is a “spoof.” No. Not a spoof.

I was also quiet at the office today because my beautiful MARRRGE is very sick.

The fact that she only weighs six pounds, and is losing weight as I type this, has nothing to do with Betty White, as I, in denial, suspected, and everything to do with something called hyperthyroidism. Apparently it’s very common in cats. But I WILL NOT send her to that radiation centre they recommended — where people in full radiation garb and Darth Vader masks give her food and scoop her poop for a whole week and just maybe pet her wee head with giant gloves. She’s almost 15 years old. That would KILL HER. Plus, I keep thinking of that guy who died on 24 of radiation poisoning while trying to save the world. Awful. And do I really want a potentially radioactive cat in my home? She’s creepy enough already.

I just have to keep her comfortable and happy. I don’t need to cure her with anything that glows in the dark and requires total isolation and (did I mention?) serious money, and the Darth Vader masks. Thankfully, I managed to find a less freaky therapy that’s a little high maintenance, but relatively comfortable for MARRRGE (3 R’s) and affordable.

Now, I’m going to send you off with something funny…. Maybe you had to be there to find this funny, but I’ll go for it anyway.

As you may know, the Rascal has a favourite stuffed animal that he calls Doggy. There’s the background.

So this morning the Monkey was brushing her hair (“it’s gold now, Mama!) and marveling at the freshly-brushed softness. “TOUCH IT TOUCH IT IT’S SO SOFT TOUCH IT!” she insisted. When she got to the Rascal, she bent her head down and said:

“TOUCH IT. JUST TOUCH IT! Touch it and you’ll forget about Doggy!”

O.M.G. funny!?! I think it’s brilliant. You had to be there?

If it’s not funny, it’s a lesson for shampoo advertisers everywhere:

“Hair so soft you’ll forget about your binky….” Do you love it? You heard it here first, Gorgeouses! Hee!

NO, Josh, this is not a fake show. Skating with the Stars is, sadly, FOR REAL!

One more thing before I go to bed. I’ve been writing nonstop articles over at Todaysparent.com — hence the shortage of posts here. It’s been crazy! Also, be sure to look out for my two-page personal (“humour”) article in the January issue of Today’s Parent Magazine! Eek!

Love!

xo Haley-O

One problem with blogging is that people think they know you — I mean, the whole you — based on the posts you write. It’s happened before that people have made assumptions about me based on this blog. And while I now have no problem with that, it’s still not the whole truth. It’s all true, of course, yes! But you’ll never get the whole truth from twice-weekly, or even daily, blog posts. Or even seeing someone in real life, for that matter. People are sort of different every time you see them, don’t you think? I may dislike someone one day and LOVE them the next. Everything’s fragments.

And still you come back here and you read, I guess, the truth of this moment. And how much do I love you for that? Because it does get lonely behind this screen sometimes.

So today I give you A BUNCH of truth fragments in one post, and then maybe I can take the rest of the week off because I am tired. That’s probably the whole truth right there. If you see me in real life, go right ahead and assume I AM TIRED.

Checkit!

1. At the end of my much-interrupted 6am yoga practice this morning, I lay down in savasana (or corpse pose), and Rascal stood over me and asked, “Mama, are you dead?”

2. He also asked if he could lie on my back while I was in a seated forward bend — nose to knees. I let him, of course. And he’s a feather. I felt nothing.

3. The Monkey is obsessed with Netflix’s preview of The Swan Princess, which is basically this song….

I’m telling you, plunk your kids down in front of that video, show them how to make it play again, and go make dinner, or read a novel (the whole thing), shave your legs…. You deserve a break.

4. Rascal says “rorot” instead of “forgot.” And he says it a lot — reminding me never-too-often of him….

Rrrrroobydoobydoo!

5. He also calls my Macbook a “puter” (pronounced “pewdah.”)

6. Because 2 cats and a dog aren’t enough, we’ve adopted a new member of the family. Meet “Pixie Hollow”:

7. I may only be blogging here once or twice a week, but I’m blogging over HERE up to FOUR TIMES A DAY, sometimes even in a British accent.

8. I only APPEAR outgoing. I’m very very shy and uncomfortable at blogging events……

9. The Monkey’s been obsessed with drawing hair lately…. (Click to enlarge.)

10. Speaking of hair…, the Rascal wants his hair cut. But I say “no,” because there’s nothing like 3-year-old bed head. There just isn’t….

11. Betty White is apparently a very long dog. This jacket is size MEDIUM. She’s a tiny dog — there’s no way I’m getting her a large….

12. I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again. He…completes me….

Love!

xo Haley-O

I’ve been complaining a wee bit about waking up at 6am every morning to do yoga and I think I’ve figured out what the problem is.

I wake up at 6am — usually after a late night working — so I can do something for me. Something QUIET and JUST for me.

Usually, my kids wake up at around 7:30am (also 2:30, 4:45, and 5:40, but that’s for another blog post). So I figured if I wanted to do any sort of thing that was JUST FOR ME under my roof, I better set my alarm a little earlier, pad softly down the stairs and enjoy.

Not so much.

The moment I shift into consciousness, the moment my eyelids dare part, HE wakes up….

And then SHE wakes up….

Thankfully, SHE stays put in bed….

But occasionally — and with special thanks to DAYLIGHT SAVINGS — she gets up too and at some point, usually midway into my yoga practice, wants breakfast….

We’ll not talk about the horrid cat situation. Okay — twist my arm — briefly: HE wakes up shortly before 6am (of course), steals my last precious minutes of sleep by locating any perceivable piece of plastic and crinkling it (i.e., threatening to eat it and die), or spilling the water on my night table (i.e., right-next-to-my-Kobo).

Sic ‘em, Betty White…!

So waking up at 6am would be EASY and maybe even JOYFUL if I didn’t have to contend with all of the above — not to mention that pesky little voice in my head that goes on and on about stuff like, “You could sooo, toooootally stay in bed until 7:30,” “what’s one day off of yoga?” “You need a break,” “You deserve a break,” and, of course, “can we have a chai latte later? Maybe don’t do yoga and have a chai today, and then be PERFECT tomorrow?” “You’ll never lose this weight, so screw it!” Ugh.

It’s truly amazing, then, when you think about it, that I actually got up at 6am every morning this week AND got start-to-finish through my yoga practice. I let out the dog, I set Rascal up on the couch (he never stays there), I break up cat-and-dog fights, I get Rascal water and the Monkey some cereal and blueberries…. “Can I lie on you?” Rascal asks, as I fold over in janu sirsasana C….

It’s not exactly meditative like yoga’s supposed to be…. But occasionally, like in a semi-uninterrupted janu sirsasana B, my mind gets really quiet, and 5 breaths can feel like 5 minutes…and I can maybe sense a sweet little surrender.

But, there ARE people who do this sort of thing no problem. A friend of mine with a 1- and 3-year-old wakes up at 5am to workout blissfully in her basement. Her kids, however, aren’t high maintenance….

My yoga teacher, who has a 5-month-old, wakes up a THREE A-M to practice…. I knowww!

Still there are others like Sarah, mom of FOUR. She wakes up at 5:30am every morning because that’s WHEN HER KIDS WAKE UP. Does she get any time to herself at all — let alone to workout? Who am I to complain about a self-imposed 6am?

So questions. Is it selfish of me to EXPECT time for myself at 6am? It’s not even like waking up at 5am would make a difference, I remind you, since the Rascal LIVES for “up time.”  I mean, my kids are 3 and 5. Isn’t it healthy for them to see mom taking care of herself and taking SOME time for herself? Thoughts?

PS: After writing this post, I got emails and comments suggesting that I’m too hard on myself. You don’t know the half of it, I’m afraid. But, it’s the way I am, and I’m working on it. Recognition goooooood. I suppose a very good product of all this is that I’m surprisingly not hard on my kids. I hope (pray) they’re never this hard on themselves, and that I can learn to be less hard on myself before they start to notice. Taking care of myself, I think, is a start — even if it means embracing a little discipline. Now, please excuse me, I need to go lift my puppy off my dining room table again. (Special thanks to RJ….)

PPS: MARRRRRRGE!

PPPS: My colleague told me Minden and I look alike.

Love!

xo Haley-O

Imagine if I could wake up at 6am everyday, do yoga everyday, cook healthy food everyday, drink herbal tea instead of Starbucks’ chai cracké every day…. Is it possible?

I live every day in the aimless shadow of this perfection. So let’s figure out what’s going on here, what’s actually attainable, and what I might be like, what I might look like, if I could possibly live this near-perfect lifestyle. Because what I might be like, or what I might look like, is in part (I think) what I’m afraid of.

Emotions aside, there are three obvious things to think about now that enough is officially enough:

A) I can do this. People do this. It’s possible. Anything’s possible, they say — except maybe somersaulting all the way around the world. In the air. With your feet behind your head. And your eyes crossed.

B) All the constant striving has to stop. Either just do it, or stop striving and accept things as they are (which won’t work because this just isn’t healthy, or the way I want to live, and enough is enough, and more about that over in the kitchen).

C) This striving is actually who I am. A Virgo. Quintessential. Perfectionista. Which means I’m constantly disappointed in myself because no one can be a perfect mother or person — but certainly clean eating and an hour of yoga a day and a dog that doesn’t jet down the street every time you open the front door is a kind of achievable perfection, no?

So I think what we need is A+B+C. I accept that I’m a perfectionist. But I can’t keep beating myself up all the time and giving up on things I want in this short, precious life. Yet I know this one thing I want for myself (and ultimately for my loved ones) is attainable. As my brillers yoga teacher told me, and as @lindseyjay kindly reminds me every day, “I can have this if I want it.”

As I write this, my little guy’s sticking his fingers on either side of my mouth, and streeeetching — you see why I only blog once a week now, sighh…. No longer the perfect every-day blogger I once was. Is everything FAIL? WAH! Wah wah. I know.

So I have a new focus, and hopefully this will do the trick. COMMITMENT. Eureka!

It’s not: “Should I or shouldn’t I have that chai fa-ri-ckin latte?” Instead it’s: “How committed am I right now?” If I find my level of commitment is 3 out of 10, I need to take a few breaths, conjure up an image in my mind of Jennifer Aniston in a bikini (at 40!), and raise it to 5, and then to 8, 10, 11, and drive right on by the seductive green sign.

Maybe this sudden new focus, new urgency, explains why I’ve been dreaming constantly about this guy….

…and seeing him and elephants elephants elephants everywhere. Ganesha, Remover of Obstacles. How awesomely fitting.

I think it’s time.

No. It’s time.

It’s time for a rebirth. Not of the old, pre-motherhood me — who was skinny and fit and driven and self-obsessed — but of a new healthier me who just so happens to set a better example for her children and maybe even for others, too.

So it’s on. Starting (necessarily, I think) with a cleanse. The Fall Fast begins…………NOW, with the famous Feel Good Guru of Toronto. Who’s with me?

And it’s on. Yoga six mornings a week — with a break on Saturdays and Moon Days — as the Yoga Guru prescribed. No need for aerobics. Ashtanga Vinyasa yoga is crazy rigorous. Though it’s so much more than a workout…. How committed are you?

Join me for a complexion-clearing, calorie-buring green smoothie? Cheers!

And now the Rascal’s calling me “Hayay.” He still can’t fully pronounce those L’s. Haley. Hmm. Who’s that? Who will that be (or look like) if I attain this attainable goal? Time to find out again. Not scary at all.

Love!

xo Haley-O

It’s a bird! It’s a plane! No! It’s….

“Come on, people — look at my pine cone! PleeeeeeEEEEEEEeeeeeeEEEEase? Ah, aah, aaah!”

He’s in a whining phase. My little superboy is always whining. Just this weekend a close family member told me this: “I feel sorry for you. I really do.” That was after I pointed out his latest favourite phrase: “aah, aah, aaahhh!”

At first I felt vindicated when she said that. The Rascal IS really high maintenance. He’s a needy little guy when he’s with me — constantly. But this isn’t a reason to feel sorry for me. Sure he’s one whiny little dude, but he’s smart and funny and adorable, and he’s loving and affectionate. And his friend poked him in the eye today and it’s all grotesquely bloodshot and hard to look at, but he’s still ridiculously gorgeous. And he may crawl into my bed every night and wake me up every hour on the hour, but he gives. the best. back rubs. No one should feel sorry for me. But everyone should just trust me when I tell you he’s high maintenance and I’m tired.

Still it was a good Halloween. I ate too much candy, but I’m fasting for the next three weeks with The Feel Good Guru (more on that later)…. And in the midst of Halloween preparations, I stole away on my own for a bit and celebrated the second-year-anniversary of my beloved yoga studio with their annual “yoga Olympics” — look how fabulous!

I thought I’d better go to the Yoga Olympics because I had the weirdest dream the other night that I was a child around the Monkey’s age (5), and I didn’t want to play, like, at all. I didn’t want to play ANYTHING. It was actually kind of a nightmare. Really sad. I figure I’d better do more things I really enjoy doing; I figure I’d better play more.

Here’s my amazing teacher, David Robson, demonstrating the down-dog relay….

And here’s the uthplutihi contest….

While I was having my own unique (I know!) kind of fun, Betty White was at the top of the stairs at home trying to figure out what the deal was with our Halloween decoration….

REEEEEEEEOWWWW! Don’t worry, Betty White! SUPERGIRL will save you!

Halloween night was a lot of fun (even for me who apparently hates playing, BAH!). The kids had a great time — even though there was a lot of “ah, aah, aaaah!” which escalated to “wah, waah, WAAAHHHHHH!” when we walked by some neighbours who were hiding behind the bushes, scaring the little kids. *Cough.*

While our pumpkins weren’t quite Martha Stewart or Sue Sylvester material, they weren’t bad…. What do you think? I did the Mickey Mouse one start to finish  (Josh carved Tinker Bell) because the Rascal HAD to have a Mickey Mouse pumpkin…ah, aaah, aaaah!

How was your Halloween? Eventful? And tell me, pleeaeaaeEEEEasse, what do you do for “play”?

Love!

xo Haley-O

P.S.: One of these days I’ll figure out how to use my new(ish) camera. Fuzzy pictures – bygones!

I’m keeping this post short because I’ve already used up any possible sense I can make over at Today’s Parent — given the current state of EXCRUCIATING PAIN I’m in after the unforeseen gum surgery I had on Friday afternoon. See? Not making sense. That painfully said, here’s some proof my house is funny, as in I can’t make this stuff up.

*Gums are throbbing.*

In case you didn’t know, I work in office until 1:30pm every day (and I finish the day’s work in the evening). The other afternoon, I came home from work to THIS dancing (seated) on my living-room floor….

It was cooking day at school, apparently….

*Cough.*

Also *owwwwww.*

Speaking of “also,” there’s also this situation….

At least Betty White’s crate is good for something…. But then….

Minden: “Help. Me.” Also: “I was here first, meow meow.”

Betty White: “Kisses? Rawr!”

Poor Minden could use a break. He and Betty White fight literally like cats and dogs….

Off to go gargle and writhe for a while. Seriously, Gorgeouses, THE PAIN!

Love!

xo Haley-O

Wheeeeeere’s Rascal?

Is he under the bed? In the closet? Inside the laundry hamper? Behind the chair?

No.

Where could he be? Do YOU know?

Let’s look again. Where’s Rascal?

It’s his favourite game: “Where’s Rascal?” And he hides in the same totally inconspicuous spot every time. Heh. But, seriously, words cannot CONVEY. So we have video. Checkit…. It’s pretty hilarious….

Pretty classic, huh? What’s not so funny? The little Rascal won’t let me sleep. He will not let me sleep. It’s been over a month now of at-least-thrice-nightly wake-up calls. I’m EXHAUSTED.

Exhausted.

Enough said…for now.

Oh, except this — I can’t keep this from any of you MILES FABER fans any longer. Remember my gorj and talented cousin Miles from the first season of So You Think You Can Dance Canada? 2nd runner up??? If for some unfathomable reason not, then maybe this will refresh your memory….

Well, here’s a photo of us at an art event last week…. Miles’ dad (my uncle), Jazz musician Arnold Faber, is playing in the background — he was the entertainment for the evening:

And, yes, he’s every bit as gorgeous in real life. So is MILES. Hee!

Check out what Miles is up to HERE (there’s video)! He’s a very busy guy…!

Also, check out my kids modeling fab organic CANADIAN clothes HERE and, while your there, grab your 20% discount (US residents can grab it, too!).

Love!

xo Haley-O

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrring!

[I hand the phone to Rascal and press the "on" button.]

Papa’shere (my dad): Hello? hello?

Rascal: Hi, Papa!

Papa’shere: Hi, Rascal, How are you?

Rascal: Good.

Papa’shere: What are you doing?

Rascal: I paying six an yaddahs by moysewf! [Trans. "I'm playing Snakes and Ladders by myself!"]

I’m swimming in what seems like a never-ending, black-with-purple-swirls sea of chaos. Everything from my childcare situation to the major celebrity mom I’m interviewing first thing Thursday (totally scared) morning in a Yorkville hotel room, to a whole mass of other confusions that I can’t get into right now partly because my eyes are glazing over and partly because your eyes would glaze over.

To navigate the purplish swirly sea of chaos I’m spinning in (dizzy), I have yoga. Except that I started bawling in yoga the other day. Well, after my teacher David Robson talked to me about why I find myself on the verge of tears after assisted twists. Something about my Samskaras, which I’m still trying to find time to research…. He tried to explain it to me, but I was trying to keep the tears from streaming and the lips from quivering embarrassingly. When he got to the “eating” part, though — something about “everything from our something-something to our experiences to our something-something to what we eat,” DING! — the lip got out of control. The tears at least waited until after he compassionately squeezed my arm and returned to the yoga class. Streamed and streamed, mixed pretty with the purple.

THIS:

He’s watching me…!

While I’m working at the office all morning, someone’s thinking of me. He’s thinking of me. He’s thinking about me doing yoga. He’s painting me doing yoga. My HEART!

She’s on the table again. She thinks she’s a cat. But she’s sorely mistaken. She’s a Maltese. With a massive underbite that makes it hard for her to pick food up sometimes. When she’s not on top of the table, she’s downstairs burying her (vegetarian) bone in the cat litter. She comes out of the litter with a white nose. It’s terribly unhealthy, and I’m slightly anxious about her lungs. Ahh, anxiety. Samskara. Also, if she has to poop while we’re still sleeping or when she’s alone in the house, she’ll sometimes do it in the beside the cats’ litter box. Poor thing is so confused.

Just like her mama.

Love.

xo Haley-O