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Leah Ferguson

But It’s So Much Warmer Right Here

If you could have checked my Facebook feed this weekend, I’m sure it looked a lot like yours, if you’re an East Coaster, too: snow. Lots and lots of pictures of snow: rulers stuck into patio-table-topped drifts, kids with huge smiles sledding down hills, dogs sunbathing on top of the shrubs in the front yard. We got 37 inches where I live. I know this only because I checked it out online. I don’t go outside in the snow. Nope. I stay inside. I make hot chocolate, and bake cookies, and catch up on the laundry. I take a couple of fuzzy iPhone pics out of obligation from the open front door, wave at my children–“Are you coming OUTSIDE, Mommy?” Nope, nope, poor children, I am not–and quickly shut it again against the cold. I like the white stuff as it’s falling–probably because it means I don’t have to go outside in it juuuuust yet, and also because it’s an excuse to make a cocktail and go back to my book and pet the cat who just curled…

Just in Case I Don’t Notice the Sunshine

Cian woke up this morning with his sisters, early, even though he’d been up a few times during the night and I knew he was tired enough to have stayed asleep. “Cian!” I said. I found him sitting at the top of the stairs, eyes half shut, as if willing himself to go down to the kitchen for breakfast. “Why are you awake?” He looked up at me. “‘Cause it’s morning.” Well, then. It’s a January mood, this feeling I’ve had lately–that sense of being down-in-the-dumps, of wanting to hibernate and eat nothing other than foods filled with way too much chocolate (preferably hot, and also with cheese and/or wine. And pizza). I hear the wind rattling through the vent on the back of the family room fireplace, and feel the cold air seeping from under the door of David’s office, which is tucked down a hallway off of the kitchen and evidently has tissue paper for insulation. A million to-do lists swirl around in my brain, but I have about as much oomph to conquer…

And Then There Was That Time I Wrote About Poop

It’s Day 1 of potty training, 8:30 a.m.: “Ci,” I say. (It sounds like “Key,” but I never know how to write it: Key? Kee? “Hey kid?”) “Do you want to go pee on the potty?” “No.” “I know, but we’re going.”  (Cian sits on the potty. I sit on the floor. Precious minutes of our lives tick by.) “It’s naht woe-king.”  Day 1, 9:30 a.m. “Hey, Ci,” I say. “Do you need to go pee on the potty?”  “No.” “I know, but we’re going.” (Cian sits on the potty. I sit on the floor. I wonder what the rest of the world is doing right now.) “Mom. It’s naht woe-king.” Day 1, 10:30 a.m.: “Cian,” I say. “Do you need to go pee on the potty?” “No.” “I know, but we’re going.” (Cian sits on the potty. I sit on the floor after throwing out the soaked…