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Leah Ferguson

From Battle Sites to Baby Names

My brother sent me a link from CNN.com today that had me thinking about our girls’ names (I realize that I think about their names often, but this time I mean think-thinking about them–you know, really thinking, not just calling out a name when I need someone to grab a baby wipe). Apparently there are tours being developed of the hot spots and murals that came out of the three decades of fighting during “the Troubles” in Northern Ireland. That’s right, folks, just like at Gettysburg, you can now trace the steps of a revolution…even if those battles didn’t work out quite so well for the ones revolting. If we can learn anything at all from witnessing this particular battle site (Cemetery Hill, say) or that riot (Bombay Street,1969), then by all means let’s keep that vigil. But I’m not here to talk about wars… …because as usual, I’m talking about my kids. More specifically, my babies’ names, which is why you’re reading this in the first place (right? Or did you google “Civil…

Slow Down, Will You?

“Hey, Saoirse, could you please go to the bathroom and wash your hands?” I’m changing Quinn’s diaper as I say this, getting the girls ready before I set about doing the peeling and chopping of wee bits, gathering of yogurt (I think there’s a small farm somewhere in Vermont specially set up just for our family’s consumption of dairy. I should probably start sending regular tips in the mail) and other assorted yes-it’s-healthy-but-man-it-takes-forever-to-prepare items we call lunch around here.  Saoirse’s lounging in the glider, feet propped up on my leg, talking to me about Blanket’s latest adventures. This, as one would expect, is way more fun than going to the bathroom. “Noooo,” she says, with a slight, defiant whine to her voice. “I don’t waaaannnt to.”  “Saoirse,” I sigh. “We’re eating now. I need you to get ready.” Off she trudges to the bathroom, eyeballing Quinn and me the whole way to ensure we’re not doing something gloriously fun while she…

Next Time I’m Just Turning on Clifford

David and I have made a conscious effort to not book our children for every class, program and flying trapeze seminar that’s offered in our area. Honest. When I taught, I saw firsthand how a jam-packed life could stress out a young person. And in the last couple years, I’ve seen two-year-olds who are cranky, overtired and whiny because they’re being rushed from one class to another to preschool to Target, then back home just to do it all again after nap time. It stressed me out just typing that. So with our own girls, we’ve been walking on the more relaxed side of the calendar-keeping. They each do an activity a couple days a week, and the rest of the time is free for getting together with friends, or running errands, or–gasp!–just hanging around the house, playing. Our bank account certainly prefers it this way, and I’d always assumed the girls, especially Saoirse, were happy, too. Until today. Actually, it’s been often lately I’ve noticed Saoirse becoming (dare I say it?), well, bored. Yes, she’ll…