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…

A Lesson in Avoidance

I really do like our house, honest. It’s cute and open and light, and I actually appreciate that it’s small enough that if I’m in one room, I can hear Saoirse doing jumping jacks on her bed in another. It’s an older home, though–circa Lyndon B. Johnson older–and true to its era, well, it’s got the closet space of a TV my mom would’ve used to watch the Beatles on Ed Sullivan. Yeah, that small. And because of that, we have to do the twice-a-year switcharoo of off-season clothes, which I usually put off until I can no longer get away with wearing lamb’s wool sweaters at the local pool. I dread the Rubbermaid storage containers staged around the bedroom. I weep at the thought of sorting through clothes to give away to charity. And now that I’m post-baby but not quite finished nursing (3 weeks and 4 days to go, now that I’m counting), I have to try on every. single. item of clothing. So I do what any organized person does: I…

When the Manual Has a Blank Page

So, took a whimpering Quinn to the doctor’s office tonight for an impromptu visit, at an hour when a) she should be sleeping, and b) I should either be trudging off to the gym, muttering curses all the while, or c) parked on the couch with some chocolate ice cream, my cute and charming husband, and Glee (after a day of wrangling the wee ones, I’ll let you decide which option I usually prefer). Do you remember how she initially had that walking pneumonia and an ear infection (of course you do. You are a loyal and awesome reader)? Well, apparently an antibiotic that works on one ailment doesn’t necessarily work on another. So what does that mean for the innocent 11-month-old? That’s right: a double ear infection that has gotten so progressively bad it causes a young lass to lose her usually massive appetite (she gained 11 oz. this week. That. Is not. Normal), cry whenever she nurses and randomly stick out her lower lip until it quivers while looking at me with tear-filled eyes, the memory of which will most certainly have us rushing out to buy…