Extreme Makeover: Yard Edition

David and I are in the middle of gutting our landscaping. Are you jealous? Yeah, I didn’t think so. We live in an older home (we throw around words like “character” and “charm” a lot when we talk about the house, so you can probably guess the age of it…). And I think when you buy a house with some years behind it, you have to be prepared that the yard might, well, soon be in desperate need of a face lift. But five years ago we were new homeowners. To say we weren’t prepared is like suggesting that someone who can’t ride a bike should probably rethink that triathlon. And besides, I sort of hesitate to use the word “landscaping” when I talk about our yard. Wanna know why? Example A: the previous owners had stuck little black wrought iron fences haphazardly around the front and side yards and then had the audacity/funny idea/sadistic nerve to surround them with daylilies. Mound upon mound of daylilies which multiplied so quickly that by our second summer in the house we were weeping bitter tears from allergy…

Detour

I sat down, all set to tell you about something entirely different tonight, when we heard Quinn wake up, crying. Well, yelping, is more like it, and she’d been doing it on and off since we put her down for the night. We thought we’d finally gotten her to go off to sleep, but alas, the neighbors called to tell us the baby was crying. No, I’m just kidding. But the girl really does have some lungs on her. This was way out of the ordinary. Usually we read her a book and place her in her crib at 7, she sucks her thumb, she goes off to sleep. Easy breezy. So to hear her cry (oh, who am I kidding?  She was full-on, sirens-blaring wailing like one of those car alarms that get set off when a dog sneezes) like that sent me upstairs faster than you can say “paranoid.” David is our family’s go-to get-’em-to-sleep wonder-worker, but I practically leap-frogged over him (have you seen how tall my husband is? I was on a mission) to get to Quinn…

A Toast and a Sippy Cup

Went to dinner last night.  David, me, Daughters Elder and Younger, that is, along with my mom and brother.  We wanted to do something to remember David’s dad, who passed away two years ago at the age of way-too-young.  In my family, remembering means eating, so eating we did (quite honestly, it also involves drinking–a toast, as it were–but not nearly as much as the eating). I kind of have to chuckle at how we’re still adamant about trying to–at least occasionally–combine our old, young-people-about-the-town personae with our present family.  Like last night, for instance, we went to a Belgian restaurant because David’s dad was of French descent, and Belgium was about as close as we could get.  We were surrounded by tables filled with couples, girlfriends, work buddies–all adults–and, of course, drawing attention with our two small–albeit awesomely well-behaved–girls.  David and I barely exchanged two words with each other, what with all the cutting of food, ordering of milk, wiping of spills.  But, by golly, we did it.  Just like…