I Think David’s Been Coaching Her

As someone who attributes great weight to the power of words (nerd!), there’s always been a short list of them that I absolutely, unequivocally, can’t stand.  Hearing these words actually makes my skin feel as if large (greasy-looking, horned, poisonous) bugs are crawling all over it.  I shudder like someone just offered me throw-up for lunch.  I cringe. I cower.  I make really unattractive faces. But these words! I really, really hate these words, and would gladly throw a party if they went the way of the fanny pack and just disappeared into an embarrassing memory. Alas, these words exist, as if their sole purpose is to chase me down, find me, and torture me with their hideous sounds. tummy yummy tasty delicious mmm (okay, not a word, but close enough to count), when said in response to something delicious. Those are the biggest offenders. And my daughter managed to use every single one of these words this morning to describe her breakfast. I may have to gouge out my eardrums before we sit down to lunch…

A Little of This, a Touch of That

“See? They’re green around the middle.” “No, I think they’re gray.” “Well, where would she get gray eyes?” “My uncle has gray eyes. And didn’t your dad have gray eyes?” “No, they were green, Leah. Well…maybe more a green-gray…” David and I were sitting on our bed this morning staring at Quinn’s face while doing some mental DNA site mapping, when all the poor girl wanted was some stinking juice and breakfast, already. It’s a typical conversation for us, and one that I wish wouldn’t come up quite so often. Despite all my pre-children absolute refusal to do so, parenthood has turned us into Master Comparers: When Saoirse bends a ball around the backyard like Beckham, well, she has to take after her soccer player dad. When Quinn keeps crawling across the room to take a swim in the dog’s water dish, despite our interventions, it’s obvious she has my stubborn streak. Saoirse has her dad’s almond-shaped eyes and resembles her godmother Kayla when she was…

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…