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Leah Ferguson

Sign of the Times

I routinely crack up (as in laugh, not have a nervous breakdown. I save those for the special occasions, like when a tick fell onto my arm the other day while I was sitting at this desk and I acted like a SWAT team had just broken into my house) when I hear Saoirse speak. So many of the phrases she uses on a daily basis–her normal, everyday vernacular–is so, so different from anything you would’ve heard me or my brother, or anyone we knew, for that matter, say when we were growing up. What, you want some examples? Why, I’m happy to oblige: 1.  At least three times a week at lunchtime, SK asks for hummus. Hummus and pita, to be exact, “but no coo-cumber in it. No. No coo-cumber. Tomorrow. You can give me coo-cumber tomorrow. I don’t like it.” My brother and I grew up in a small town in south-central Pennsylvania, Dave and his brother, in Baltimore city. We knew nothing of this stuff called hummus. We ate bologna on white bread, with Utz potato chips, silly, just like everybody…

It Happens Overnight

Our Quinn’s never been much of a mover. She took forever to roll over, and I think she only did it twice, as if to say, “See? I can do it! Now stop worrying and leave me alone, why dontcha?” She didn’t move from lying down to sitting up at all, and if placed on her stomach, she’d wail out in despair with a facial expression that made it seem like we’d just told her she’ll be paying for college herself. Only recently did she master this sort of half-body scoot-crawl, which basically consisted of dragging herself around by her arms while her legs sort of stayed bent in place (this girl’s got the best biceps of anybody on the playground). Her pediatrician had mentioned that since Quinn is a bigger baby (twenty-four and a half pounds of puuuure adorableness, people!), she was more likely to take her time meeting her physical milestones. This was okay with me. If she were our first baby, I’d have been freaking out, convinced that she’d be in a crib till she was…

Is it Possible to Hire a Grocery Nanny?

Grocery shopping. I’ve put off writing about this for so long, for three reasons: I’m worried that I will bore you to tears. There’s way too much to write about, and nap time only lasts so long. Even writing about it exhausts me. I need to brag a little: our children are fantastically well-behaved for most of their waking hours. They are sweet, and smiley, and treat trips out-of-doors like their own little spa vacations. Saoirse is constantly asking, “Mom, are we going anywhere today?,” the answer to which is usually yes, which is also a large part of the reason why the family room couch is currently covered in laundry waiting to be folded. (Much to my disappointment, there are no real leprechauns in the world who do your housework for you while you’re gone. The myths and legends lie. This makes me quite sad, if you can believe it). At the store, SK bounces along, helping me choose everything from avocados to cereal, and Quinn is just content to flash gummy smiles at everybody she passes. But even with the most awesome of children, grocery…