Prada Bag or Diaper Bag? Which Goes Better With a Spit-up Stained Armani Gown?

I’m a stand-up comic who learned about parenting the hard way; I became one. After 36 years of childless living spoiled me into believing happy hour was just a normal part of one’s daily commute, I moved to Utah (to ski everyday, of course) and within a year got pregnant. (Isn’t that what happens to any woman who moves to Utah?)

Before I knew it I had two young sons and suddenly sleep won out over midnight comedy shows. Juicy Juice replaced Grey Goose vodka (although they are good mixed), Prada bags gave way to diaper bags, and showers couldn’t last longer than a “Bob the Builder” video. When my boys got older vacations took a backseat to music lessons, and eventually school band instruments littered the house like empty beer bottles in a Notre Dame dorm over St. Paddy’s weekend. And for at least the first 10 years of my sons’ lives I felt compelled to clean up my language (sort of).

In between carpools and doing crazy stuff like lobbying for sex education in public schools (so our kids don’t grow up thinking the missionary position involves a bicycle and a doorbell) I documented my parenting journey in my laugh-out-loud book Confessions of a Band Geek Mom (which you all need to buy on since my kids expect to go to college someday, and after researching schools I’m thinking bake sales and craft fairs just aren’t going to cut it as a source for tuition–even in Utah).

But now I’ve decided to use this blog to continue the authentication of my crazy, conflicting journey, which these days pretty much consists of  shuttling my saxophone-playing sons all over the state for concerts, band competitions, and music lessons with instructors who cost more per session than a French manicure done by little Korean ladies on Rodeo Drive.

So come back when I send out a smoke signal on the Internet indicating I’ve got something funny to say. Then sit back, relax, and enjoy  this delightful personal account that my children are sure to one day contest once they’re old enough to understand that ironic exaggeration truly is an art form of the highest caliber…and that their mother was a master at it.