It’s raining babies. Both my brother and sister became first-time parents in the last couple of months. Because my kids are germ-laden and their babies are still so tiny, I found a way to debut them as a group! Lilly stars as Frankenbaby and Molly is the witch the crazy hair. Welcome to the chaos, girls!

As the divorce proceedings wind down, I had to make a BIG decision—one that I had been thinking about for a long, long time. I needed to figure out who the heck I was going to be.

When I got married, I changed my last name. At that time, it was unnerving to think that Pam Brashear, newbie (but published) writer would just evaporate. The girl once that pounded the pavement and got herself a job on Capitol Hill would be gone. Forever.

I’m from a close-knit nuclear family. It made me sad to let go of my maiden name. I love my family. But he felt strongly about it, so I changed my middle name to my maiden name. Done and done.

Now that we’ve split, the answer seems simple right? Just go back to the maiden name. But nothing is ever that easy. Many things swirled through my head as I weighed the options.

For example, I have primary custody of the girls. Will it be weird for them if mommy has a different last name? Will it make us all feel like less of a family if our names are different? Will it cause confusion for them and/or school administrators/doctors/Girl Scout Troops if we aren’t all De Jongs?

Also, it’s natural for a woman to announce a name change at work when she gets married. But I can’t remember ONE woman that did a name change because of a divorce. What would I do then, announce at every meeting that I am once again a Brashear? And have to face the tilted head and unwanted pity for months? And all the related issues of people not remembering what the new name was or how to email or find me?

And what if I remarry someday? Yes, even after all this drama I’m hopeful that “the one” is out there somewhere. So what then? Someday I might change my name to match his. Especially if it’s Mrs. Bradley Cooper. But I digress. What if I keep it and he remarries and then there are two, wait, THREE Mrs. De Jongs if you count his mom? What is this? Big Love?

I was trapped. With a bad case of analysis paralysis.

I’ve worked REALLY hard at  my career as Pam De Jong. For more than 10 years in heathcare communications, and as a freelance writer, and blogger here at OC Family. Several months ago, I was offered an AMAZING opportunity with OC Family. And all of the sudden it was crystal clear to me that there was only one woman for the job: Pam Brashear. 

In fact, when April’s OC Family and Inland Empire Magazines hit the stands tomorrow, you’ll see what Pam Brashear had up her sleeve. She wrote the COVER STORY. For both magazines.

Pammie Sue is back, baby.

Disney Princess-palooza has officially hit my toddlers like a freight train. The movies are constantly running, the songs are being sung, and the licenced dolls and toys are a-whirl. All the time. It never ends. It is waltzing right over all over my nerves these days.

I worked for Mr. Mouse in college, so it’s nearly impossible me to overdo it on Disney. I love all things Disney. But I am so tired of these cartoon women running my life. I’m teetering on the edge of TOO MUCH.

But I have found a few clever ways to make this mania work to my advantage. I invented, mostly out of desperation, some princess-themed games to play with the girls. I use the term “games” loosely. You’ll see.

First of all, I’d like to thank Cinderella for making cleaning (and apparently indentured servitude) cool for my girls. They adore her and have become obsessed with cleaning along with “Cinderellie” as she sings her happy tunes. I found a Cinderella-themed broom and dustpan at my local Big Lots, which was honestly the best ten bucks I’ve ever spent. So when the place starts looking like a toy-store-bomb hit it, which is pretty much every night, all I have to do is pop in the DVD and we play “Cinderella.”

The girls slip on their cheapy, plastic, princess dress-up heels (or clip-clops, as Abby calls them) and get right to work. Ellie sweeps, Abby swiffers, mommy wins.

Often, I’ll give Ellie a small dish towel, with just plain water on it. It’s her favorite way to clean. She’ll drop down on her hands and knees and furiously wipe-down the floors and anything else within reach. If it wouldn’t get me reported to CPS, I would totally invent kid-safe cleaning products.

Then, my mom got me a lightweight, rechargeable stick-style vacuum. Now, they FIGHT over who gets to vacuum during “Cinderella.” And of course, you can’t vacuum with junk all over the floor, so they race to see who can put the books and toys away the fastest. It has given me back at least an hour of “mommy” time each day, since I’m not trying to pick up and clean after they are in bed.

The other game we play is “Sleeping Beauty.” For this one, I lay on the couch (or floor) with my eyes closed and pretend to sleep, while the girls “style” my hair and apply fake make-up. For some reason, it’s some big treat to dress me up and put clips in my hair.

They pamper me with the full-service spa treatment including a thorough hair brushing, faux shampoo and blow dry, application of imaginary fake nails (applied with crayons), a complete pretend facial and make-up application. And when it’s over, I even get a back massage. To be honest, the massage part feels like it’s being done by actual Fraggles–teeny hands bouncing around aimlessly on my back as if propped up on sticks. But who’s complaining? NOT ME!

They have a blast and I get to actually relax BEFORE they are in bed. On weeknight! It’s a win-win.

What sanity-saving games have you invented to make life with little ones easier? Go ahead, I won’t judge.

We interrupt your regularly scheduled blog with a public service announcement. Since I’ve moved to the burbs, I have noticed a strange phenomenon: little family portraits (consisting of stick figures) proudly displayed on the back any given momobile for all to see.

Aside from the fact that they are REALLY annoying, those stickers are a REALLY bad idea.

These moms obviously don’t watch Dexter. If they did, they would know that’s precisely how the Trinity Killer lured his victim away from the arcade. He said, I am officer so-and-so and your parents have been in an accident. My partner, officer so-and-so, already has your brother Timmy (a name which he learned from the back of the family van) and is taking him down to the station. Come with me. The kid goes along, no questions asked. It’s frightening.

Now, I am by no means a cop, FBI agent, or any other type of law enforcement officer. But displaying the name and birth order of each and every member of your family just seems downright irresponsible.

In some cases, the stickers even show the said family’s last name, like a banner that reads “The Miller Family” right across the top. YIKES! Furthermore, we really don’t care about the names of your dog, cat, fish and/or hamster.

Sing it with me, “The more you knoooooooooow!”

I know, I know, the silence is deafening. It’s killing me too.

But due to some, shall we say “stuff,” I had to make an executive decision to take a mini writing break. Or to at least scale WAY back. I am sharing this with you so if I disappear from blogdom for a bit or my infrequent posts start to REALLY suck, you’ll know what’s up.

I recently made a very grown-up decision. This wasn’t an overnight decision and in fact, it’s been a really long time coming. And that’s about as much as I can say. But for now, I am absolutely making a decision that’s in the best interest of my girls. I have no doubt in my mind that I am doing the right thing. But that doesn’t make it any less complicated.  

I’ve been advised not to write publicly about what I am going through. Since, apparently, it can (and the way things have been going WILL) be used against me. And maybe I will write anyway, for my own sanity, and post it in 100 years or when the dust settles. Whichever comes first.  

Here’s the rub–my whole website is based mostly on observational humor and the absurdities of everyday life. And right now, certain absurdities are off limits.

I know that MOST of my readers are also close friends, or my mom. Hi mom. I also know that you love and support me no matter what, and for that I am eternally grateful. 

Trust me, we’ll be in touch.

Don’t tell my ortho doc buddies at the hospital. It’s her VERY favorite place to hang out lately.

She gets all Fred Flinstone and scoots across the kitchen

Wanna make your own comic? It’s easy, check out Toonlet.

I saw this ad in my beloved “O” magazine and just had to comment. This is the new low-calorie mousse that Jell-o is pimping.

But to me it just looks like a spoonful of Ethel poo. Or something Gordie would yack up onto the carpet and re-eat. The best part is the ad said, “enlarged to show texture.” Like that’s a selling point?

Lucy has a love (read:obsession) with wiping things down. As soon as she gets her little paws on ANY sort of white cloth, she drops to her hands and knees, then proceeds to vigorously scrub the floor. It doesn’t matter whether it’s dirty or clean, she’ll wipe it.

But it keeps getting more and more embarrassing. We’ve been in public restaurants where she’ll see a napkin on the floor and she’ll slip out of my grasp, drop to her hands and knees, then proceed to vigorously scrub the floor. People look at me, aghast, thinking “what the heck do you make this poor baby do for you at home?” And trust me, she did NOT learn this from me. As many of you know, I am not compulsive about that at all. Grammar, yes, scrubbing on my hands and knees, no.

She’ll also take the “naked” Swiffer (sans cleaning pad) and clean the floors. So, this weekend I had an epiphany. Would it be SO wrong to give her the tools to actually clean? I mean, she’s going through the motions anyway, right? I decided to actually put the moistened cleaning cloth on the end of the Swiffer and let her go to town. She was entertained for at least 20 minutes, which is years in Lucy time.

Talk about killing two birds with one stone. At this point, I can’t really give her a Clorox wipe since I fear it will end up in her mouth. If I tried to invent a kid-friendly cleaning product, I bet someone would call CPS.