Really, for Kathy

So, we’re on our way tomorrow to the funeral of my mom’s cousin, whom I sort of, kind of, absolutely adored. I didn’t know her as well as I would’ve liked–it’s kind of hard to do so when you only see each other at weddings/funerals/birthday parties. The illness that lead to her death was sudden news to us, and all I kept saying, to my mom and to David was, “Kathy?! Our Kathy?” Because it just didn’t seem possible that somebody like her could cease to live. This isn’t meant to be a depressing post, so you can keep reading. Honest. I just had to tell you that what I loved most about Kathy–besides her laugh, of course, which seemed to come easily and sounded exactly like her mother’s–was how much she liked me. Isn’t that terribly narcissistic, to think about yourself like that when someone’s died? But that’s how I felt. It was always so clear to me that she really, truly liked me–she liked…

Because It Flies, Time Does

In my ongoing effort to reclaim my house from the clutter that has been awake at night, sneaking onto tabletops and into closets, giggling as it stuffs itself into my diaper bag and laundry room, I have finally–finally!–begun the attack on the very last pile of Crap With Which I Don’t Know What to Do. This stack of messiness includes everything from recipes I want to load onto my computer, thank you notes that were written but never sent, a list of songs I want to download (because, honey, I have gift cards to burn), and, yes, a check or two from Quinn’s birthday that I have yet to put into the bank (sorry, Aunt Mary. I’m on it tomorrow, I swear).  It is the final frontier, people, my last hurdle to jump. And I will, I tell you, I will get to the other side.  Even if that means finally scanning the ultrasounds I got to keep from the baby’s first photo op.  And by baby, I mean, Saoirse, you know.  I told you, this pile of papers can tell some stories. So this afternoon, while Saoirse…

Who You Calling a Nerd?

I keep trying to read books with Quinn. Sometimes she listens, rubbing her fingers over the characters on the pages–especially if those pages have built-in mirrors that allow her to grin at her too-adorable, two-toothed self–but mostly, to my English teacher’s chagrin, when we sit down to read together she writhes around in my lap, tries to chew on my arm, or slaps the pages close because dammit, she doesn’t want to read any stinking books right now. She’s only 12 months old, I keep telling myself. She’s still a baby. So what if she doesn’t like to read now? It’s okay, there’s still time. There’s still time (kindly imagine the high-pitched voice wailing into the abyss, please). Then there’s Saoirse, who will wake early in the morning and read books for an hour quietly in her bed before we even realize she’s been awake. At night, I’ll walk by her room, and even if it’s a half hour past her bedtime, there she is, in bed, with…