Hypothermia as Bonding Time

It’s with a small amount of motivation and a big ol’ dose of sheer guilt that I drag myself and the mighty Quinn to her swim class every week.  It’s painful (for me, not Quinn, of course.  What kind of mother do you think I am?).  All the swimsuit-ing and flip-flopping and toweling just to splash around for 30 minutes in water with a temperature I’d imagine is comparable to the insides of the ice cubes in our home freezer.  In each class, we do the Hokey Pokey.  We pretend to drop the babies off the ledges into the water (what does Quinn think the whole time I’m doing that, by the way?  Whee!  I get to play in the bubbles! or Holy crap, what’s my mother trying to do to me?!).  We walk up and down the length of the pool a few times while our babies chew away at mildew-filled rubber duckies.  And then we turn ourselves around. Now, I realize that there are better swim lessons out there.  But the lassie’s only 10 months old, you know.  And really, the only…

Something to Love

Someone new has taken up permanent–however temporary, really–residence in our home. He follows us from room to room. He sits silently in a chair at the dinner table while we eat. He is fawned over, caressed, talked about incessantly, tucked into bed at night. And quite honestly, I’m starting to get a little irritated with him. Reader, meet Blanket: Nope, it’s not Michael Jackson’s son. I know, I’m disappointed, too, because that would make for such a better story. Our Blanket (capitalized as a proper noun to give him his due) is the softest, sweetest rectangle of synthetic pastel fabric I’ve ever touched. Our kind retired neighbors (they travel in a group, and we call them the “ladies.” Not of the night, no. That’s gross. Just “ladies.”) gave it to Saoirse when she was born, and after it spent the better part of two years in a drawer, I resurrected it when Quinn was born because it’s just the best. blanket. ever (or have I mentioned that already?). Saoirse never paid any mind to it, though: I tucked…

Remind Me of This Tomorrow Morning

My friend Susannah once bemoaned (yes, bemoaned, because sometimes you’re just that tired) that staying at home with your children basically just means you’re always doing some form of cleaning up.  And she’s right: wiping tushies, cleaning counter tops, washing laundry–they’re all the tasks we do constantly.  All day long.  Every day.  But I realized something tonight:  my day is food.  Either preparing it or eating it, food rules (well, you know that already, but bear with me here.  I’m on a bit of a rant).  I breastfeed, then get breakfast together for the girls…then nurse some more, then get a snack for Saoirse…then it’s time for lunch, and another snack and dinner and…well, by the time I add in all the time I’m cooking or cleaning up, no wonder the laundry gets backed up. When I look at my day, my week (and my weekend, because if you’re at home you know there’s no difference between weekends and weekdays anymore), I am very aware of how much of my life is the minutiae…