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…

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…