The Oven Wasn’t Cool, Sylvia, but I Feel You

Saoirse has been in a bit of a temper tantrum phase, if you will (I wish you wouldn’t.  Maybe they’d stop, then).  The slightest blips in the radar of her world will set her off, and there’s no predicting them.  She’ll be happy as a seal on a seashore one moment, and the next acting like the mean ol’ angry shark that just came in to eat the seal for dinner. The best option for us right now seems to be to remove her from the situation until she calms down, because there is absolutely no talking to her/reasoning with her/begging to stop the crying already until she tires out.  It’s like a person who drinks too much out at the bar one night, and it’s only when he’s hanging over a toilet with a pounding head the next morning that he first feels those awful pangs of remorse.  SK, after the tantrum, has a period where she tries to figure herself out. This morning, I put her in a room after she pitched a fit because Quinn was playing with a bib…

Ah, Yes

Happy Independence Day, everyone.  Waking up today (at 8:30!  How did that happen?  More importantly, how did our children let that happen?), I was thinking about my summer break between my first and second year of college, when I was working in the misses department of our local JCPenney.  What a mind-numbingly awful job.  I still distinctly remember closing up the store after hours at night and having to walk past all those creepy mannequins lining the dark aisle.  Brrr.  I still get the heeby-jeebies thinking about it. But back to what I was saying.  I remember that summer particularly because I woke up early on July 4.  I woke up cursing the sun, the bright sky, and all the evils of the time card, let me tell you.  I had to put on some tanned-colored pantyhose, my professional-yet-comfortable heels and work that golly awful job.  It was my first real taste of the bitterness of adult responsibility.  Granted, that job was paying for my books for fall semester, but that July 4th all I was concerned about was declaring my independence from price tags and returns without receipts. That was a long time…

A Pair of Shoes, A Paradox

Ladies (and some gents, if you’re willing to own up to it), do you remember this? Wearing your mom’s high heels? Prancing around in her clothes? Getting that giddy smile on your face when, for just a second, you were somebody else? Somebody special? You were your mom! You were a grown-up.  I caught Saoirse trying on my shoes yesterday, cavorting around her room a little too well for my taste in heels that are just about three  inches too high for anybody under the age of, say, 18.  She was giddy. I was concerned that she was going to wreck an ankle.  And as I am wont to do, I had three extreme and sudden silent reactions, all while keeping a proud-mommy smile plastered on my horrified face: 1.  Holy s#!+! She’s going to wreck her ankle! 2.  Aaaahhh!  No, no!  You look too mature in those heels and getthemoff! 3.  Wait. That’s what I used to do with my mom’s shoes. When did I become the mom? As I ran to grab the camera before Saoirse forgot the shoes and went back to playing with Lightning…