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…

One for the History Books

A few weeks ago, our local parents magazine started advertising their annual Family Fun Festival (go ahead, say that three times quickly).  The shindig itself was free, but way at the bottom of the ad, I saw that there was an option to buy tickets to a character breakfast with–wait for it–Clifford (the big red dog?!) and Curious George.  It was like Saoirse’s fairy godmother was personally waving a red flag at me, shouting, “Hellooooo, lady, look at the sheer joy we have concocted for the sole pleasure of your young daughter!”  I did a happy dance, took out our much-abused bank card and bought us a little spot of happiness.  David calmly said, “Oh, that sounds cool.  Saoirse will love it.”  Saoirse saw the ad lying on a table where I had cut it out, grabbed it, and carried it around with her for five days. So, Saturday, we–I, David, and the mighty Quinlan, of course–took Saoirse to meet her hero.  I was a basket of nerves, because she’d been talking about meeting Clifford–you know, bigger-than-a-house Clifford…