And I Still Have Yet to Shower

Have you ever noticed how one week can be so completely different from the one before it?  I swear, this time last week I was all, I got this.  The house was tidy, I was in a routine, the days were clicking along like highly organized clockwork.  Life was a smooth ride, and I was the dog hanging its happy little head out the window in the breeze while “Free Bird” blasted from the car stereo. Oh, wait.  No, that was the week before that.  Last week was awful. Funny how it all ebbs and flows.  One day I’m practically skipping along first thing in the morning to some fun activity with the girls, while SK shouts “Hurray!  Hurray!” (she actually does this, and I want to remember it forever) and Quinn giggles at her big sister.  The next, I’m still in pajamas at 2 p.m. because Saoirse’s been throwing the baby’s toys in the refrigerator and Quinn keeps clinging to my ankles, wailing up at me until I pick her up, prop her on one hip and try to stir the sauce without singeing her toes…

More Like a Meow These Days

Marriage made me a hypocrite.  Motherhood has made me such an even bigger one, I’ve turned into a hippo-crite (get it?!  Because hippos are huuuge?).  I’ve always been of the I-am-woman-hear-me-roar variety.  I used to be quite proud of myself when I could shovel six feet of snow off the roof of my car in the winter, or handle the creepy guy who always said something to me on the walk home from work (naiveté also works wonders sometimes, but still).  I liked that I was quite capable of hefting my own Christmas tree up six flights of stairs to my apartment, thankyouverymuch, or putting together all that IKEA furniture in record time.  I was independent, and on my own, and working very had to conquer my chunk of the world. And then I got married, and forgot how to take out the trash. As I type this, David is working outside in the heat (90 degrees, according to the computer on which I’m working while sitting, on  the couch, in the air conditioning).  He’s been busting his you-know-what (if you don’t…

Don’t It Always Seem to Go

We heard the buzz of the chainsaw, and the next thing I know Saoirse was on the couch in front of the big window in our living room, staring across the street.  “Mom,” she said.  “What are those men doing?”  I groaned, then reached for the phone and dialed David. “The neighbors are cutting down that tree in their front lawn!  That huge one!” David started laughing. “But you hated that tree!  All you could talk about was how ugly it was.” “I know,” I said.  “But it’s a tree!” It really was an ugly tree, to tell you the truth.  Hideous thing.  But still.  When David and I moved here from Baltimore, we were looking for something different from the concrete and traffic of downtown living.  We wanted trees.  So we bought a house across the street from woods and meadows.  Granted, we were just blocks away from a busy road, but you wouldn’t know that standing in our front yard.  Here, we imagined Bambi and his mom scampering around in the fields and marveled at all the bluebirds flitting about–mainly…