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…

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…