Buying the Farm

We took Saoirse and Quinn to pick strawberries yesterday during our CSA‘s open farm day (yeah, yeah, I hear your jokes about patchouli and Birkenstocks). And as usually happens while harvesting one’s own produce from the earth itself, we spent a lot of time in an open field (shocking, right?), under a hot sun (in June?! No way!), a solid 10-minute uphill walk from the “house” part of the farm itself. As this little event strays from the norm of our air-conditioned, Wegman’s-shopping life, I was expecting a meltdown of sorts, but really, I did okay. Har, har.  You thought I was talking about the girls, right? Nah, they had a grand ol’ time. It was a good–albeit, long, exhausting, sweaty–morning, out of which I gleaned a few specific tidbits for the life lesson books: When there is a 24-pound baby who will need to be carried on someone’s back in a carrier that, while practical, clasps over your collarbone in an unforgiving way and produces enough sweat to fuel a slip-n-slide, opt to make sure your husband does…

You Can Probably Smell it from There

What screams “desperate housewife” more: a) baking chocolate chip cookies for the UPS delivery man, b) downing a bottle of wine on the couch during the afternoon soaps, or c) writing a novel feverishly while the children sleep, subsisting on chocolate and tepid water? Please say a or b.  Please. I’ve been wanting to tell you this for awhile, only because it’s like my dirty little secret I keep hidden in a dark corner of the closet (which means–if you’re familiar at all with a couple of our closets–it will survive a nuclear holocaust, because it’s that buried). I am. I admit it. I’m working on a book. Actually, I’ve written it. The rough draft was completed last fall, during a fit of focused determination that resulted in hours of me in front of the laptop, and a house that quickly bulged with its dirty laundry (literal, not figurative), a family that ate Cheerios and some applesauce for dinner night after night, and an indulging husband who sent me text messages to let me know he still existed and made sure the…

She Wore an Itsy-Bitsy, Teeny-Weeny…Muumuu?

I did it. I put myself in a bikini. And went out into the world. Without a cover-up. No one screamed. Or fainted from shock. No one ran away in hysterics, including me, so I guess that’s a good thing. Saoirse’s been begging to go to what she calls the “wading pool” since, oh, about January. Yes, we have our own pool, which sparkles prettily in the back of the yard, but its only problem (other than harboring amorous frogs and spiders the size of your head) is that its only “proper” entrance (besides the jumping, cannonballing, shallow diving options, of course) is a step ladder into the shallow end.  We don’t have those nice, wide stairs that you’d typically find gradually descending into the water.  Which means that there’s no place to sit with a child, and no safety net of sorts to make a kiddo feel comfortable once she’s in.  So, if I’m on my own with a baby and a 3-year-old who can’t swim yet, no one’s going near that pool. Instead…