Is it Possible to Hire a Grocery Nanny?

Grocery shopping. I’ve put off writing about this for so long, for three reasons: I’m worried that I will bore you to tears. There’s way too much to write about, and nap time only lasts so long. Even writing about it exhausts me. I need to brag a little: our children are fantastically well-behaved for most of their waking hours. They are sweet, and smiley, and treat trips out-of-doors like their own little spa vacations. Saoirse is constantly asking, “Mom, are we going anywhere today?,” the answer to which is usually yes, which is also a large part of the reason why the family room couch is currently covered in laundry waiting to be folded. (Much to my disappointment, there are no real leprechauns in the world who do your housework for you while you’re gone. The myths and legends lie. This makes me quite sad, if you can believe it). At the store, SK bounces along, helping me choose everything from avocados to cereal, and Quinn is just content to flash gummy smiles at everybody she passes. But even with the most awesome of children, grocery…

Dog Barf and Cousins

As I write, our dog is upstairs dry heaving. Not quite sure what’s going on with him, but he doesn’t look happy, the sound is making me nauseous, and I’m pretty sure I should be moving him outside and calling the vet rather than typing this. Have you ever heard a dog barf? The last time he did this was when we’d first moved here from Baltimore. He’d gotten into some chocolate bars we’d accidentally left out on the counter (and by some, I mean a pound and a half). Per our vet, I gave him some hydrogen peroxide and waited outside while he brought it all back up…or so I thought. Ten minutes after Luca came inside–Dave had walked in the door just in time for this–our entire kitchen floor, our chair–our dog–was covered in mucus-y chocolate vomit. Yeah, I know. I can still smell it, too. Our downstairs smelled like the Hershey’s factory for days. At least he stayed in the kitchen, right? As you might have guessed, this is totally not what…

Flying a Kite

There are certain tasks a child expects her parent to be able to do, without question or fail, at every single attempt. It is inherently assumed that Mom and Dad will always be able to: a) assemble a bike, b) make a boo-boo feel better, c) tie a shoe, and d) fly a kite. Guess which one I can’t do. Alas, yesterday it was windy enough for naive, optimistic Mom (that’s me) to suggest to Saoirse that we try out her new kite. Funny, thing, telling someone to go fly a kite: you say that to an adult–“Hey! Go fly a kite, wouldya?!”–and you risk getting punched in the face. Say the same thing to a 3-year-old, though, and you get, “Okay! That sounds like fun! Let’s GO!” So outside we went, plopping Quinn in the grass, where she promptly ripped off her socks only to discover that bare grass feels awful on a baby’s skin: This is also where my poor eldest child discovered that Mom is a failure, at least when it comes to kite-flying on a semi…